ONCE  IN  A  LIFE 


ONCE  DSf  A  LIFE 


By  CHARLES  GARVICE 


GROSSET    &     DUNLAP 
PUBLISHERS  .       .  NEW  YORK 


Copyright  1892,  by  George  Munro. 


ONCE  IN  A  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  Spaniards,  who  have  always  a  proverb  on  their  lips,  are 
particularly  partial  to  this  one: 

"  God  m*ikes  woman  perfect;  man  spoils  her;  love  redeems 
her." 

If  you  leave  the  town  of  Barnstaple  on  your  right,  and  walk 
a  matter  of  a  mile  or  two,  you  come  upon  a  scene  which  will, 
according  to  your  temperament  and  the  state  of  the  tide,  either 
make  you  shudder  and  turn  back  appalled,  or  rivet  your  at- 
tention and  cause  you  to  linger  with  a  kind  of  fascination  as 
indescribable  as  it  is  irresistible.  For  it  is  just  here  that  the 
bed  of  the  river  Taw  widens,  presenting,  at  high  tide,  a  broad 
stretch  of  water  pleasant  to  look  upon,  but  at  low  tide  a  reach 
of  sand  which  is  the  embodiment  of  desolation  and  solitude. 

The  reach  of  sand  goes  down  to  the  sea,  which  at  neap-tide 
sometimes  crawls  up  it  like  a  weary  snake,  but  at  spring-tide 
comes  tearing  up  like  a  wild  beast  rushing  with  an  ominous 
and  deadly  silence  upon  its  prey. 

Nine  persons  out  of  ten  who  stand  and  look,  at  low  tide,  at 
this  waste  of  salt-sand  and  listen  to  the  cry  of  the  sea-birds 
which  soar  across  the  waste,  sometimes  swooping  down  upon 
the  fish  in  the  shallow  pools,  or  upon  the  sand  eels  that  vainly 
try  to  burrow  out  of  sight,  would  shiver,  shudder  and  hurry 
back  to  the  comfortable. inn  at  Barnstaple — which  is  a  pity; 
for  if  they  would  only  walk  half  a  mile  along  the  bank,  going 
toward  the  sea,  they  would  come  upon  a  scene  which,  for 
sheer  out-and-out  loveliness,  they  would  find  it  hard  to  match. 
They  would  find  a  little  valley  verdant  as  the  Emerald  Isle  it- 
self, with  softly  covered  hills  on  either  side,  with  a  rippling 
brook,  with  birds  tamer  and  sweeter  of  song  than  the  guille- 
mots; with  everything,  in  short,  which  the  poet  and  painter 
insists  upon  having. 

In  this  valley,  close  to  the  mouth  of  the  brook,  stands  a  mill; 


C  OXCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

say,  rather,  hides,  for  you  can  not  see  it  from  the  river-bank, 
and  the  trees  round  it  shut  it  from  the  view  of  the  hills.  At 
one  time  it  was,  in  a  very  small  way,  a  flourishing  little  mill. 
Farmers  brought  their  wheat  there  to  be  ground;  the  wheel 
spun  round  merrily  and  industriously;  the  miller  and  his  man, 
both  white  with  flour,  sung  cheerily. 

But  the  mill  has  long  been  motionless,  the  machinery  is 
rusty,  and  though  the  water  still  trickles  over  the  broken 
wheel,  it  does  so  in  a  sleepy,  lazy  fashion,  and  with  a  subdued 
murmur.  The  neighboring  farmers  no  longer  bring  their  wheat 
there  to  be  ground;  have,  indeed,  most  of  them,  forgotten  that 
the  mill  exists;  though  within  a  few  miles  of  the  busy  town  it 
is  so  "  remote  "  that  it  might  be  a  hundred  miles  distant.  The 
cart  road  is  overgrown  with  weeds  and  grass, through  which  only 
a  narrow  footpath  is  visible.  No  one  has  any  business  to 
transact  there,  so  no  one  comes,  excepting,  perhaps,  the  ubiq- 
uitous tourist;  and  he  only  stands  and  stares  about  him  for 
awhile,  and  then,  perhaps  oppressed  by  the  silence  and  the 
solitude,  tramps  off  to  better-known  and  duly  advertised  spots. 

In  this  mill  cottage  lived  Edwin  Chester  and  his  daughter 
Lyra. 

He  had  come  to  the  cottage  and  its  ruined  mill  some  ten  years 
before  this  story  opens,  when  Lyra  was  a  slip  of  a  girl  in  the 
"  all  legs  and  wings  "  stage.  No  one  knew  anything  about 
him,  no  one  cared.  Father  and  daughter  settled  down  alone 
and  unaided,  and  had  continued  to  live  in  the  little  out-of-the- 
way  valley  in  solitary  unfriendliness. 

It  is  a  way  failures  have.  For  the  man  was  a  failure.  He 
had  started  to  make  money,  and  failed;  he  had  married  to 
secure  happiness,  and  failed;  for  his  wife  had  died  in  giving 
birth  to  Lyra. 

How  many  men,  alas!  lose  their  wives;  but  many,  fortu- 
nately for  them,  live  down  their  sorrow;  but  this  man  could 
not  do  so.  He  had  loved  his  wife  with  all  his  heart  and  soul. 
She  had  been  very  beautiful,  and  she  had  loved  him  with  a  love 
almost  as  absorbing  as  his  own.  When  she  passed  away  she 
took  his  heart  with  her;  it  lay  buried  in  her  grave,  and  there 
it  remained,  notwithstanding  Heaven  had  given  him  a  daugh- 
ter as  lovely  as  her  mother,  and  as  lovable. 

You  see,  he  could  never  look  upon  Lyra's  beautiful  face 
without  seeing  the  reflection  of  his  dead  wife's,  without  re- 
membering what  the  child  had  cost  him. 

Shut  up  with  his  books,  he  lived  the  life  of  a  recluse,  shun- 
ning his  fellow-men,  speaking  seldom,  smiling  never. 

In  the  sole  companionship  of  her  father  and  a  hunchbacked 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  7 

old  man,  an  old  servant  who  had  followed  Mr.  Chester  in  his 
ruin,  Lyra  had  grown  from  childhood  to  that  mystic  state  in 
which  childhood  stands  palpitating  'twixt  girl  and  woman. 

She  had  no  friends  outside  the  cottage  save  the  birds  in  the 
little  wood  behind  the  house,  their  wilder  cousins  sailing  above 
the  sands,  the  babbling  brook,  the  flowers  in  the  valley,  the 
salt  waves  that,  when  the  wind  blew,  turned  the  river  into  a 
mimic  sea,  and  her  books. 

A  girl  must  love  something.  Lyra  loved  her  father  and 
nature.  Her  father,  unfortunately,  could  not  return  that 
love,  but  nature  had  responded,  and  responded  generously. 

It  lavished  its  gifts  upon  her — had  given  her  beauty  far  be- 
yond the  ordinary,  had  given  her  strength  and  health,  and  a 
nameless  charm  which,  perhaps,  the  very  conditions  of  her  life 
had  created  and  developed. 

She  was  not  above  the  average  height,  but  exquisitely 
formed,  with  the  lissom  grace  which  belongs  to  those  whose 
lives  are  spent  in  the  open  air,  untrammeled  and  unburdened 
by  such  fashionable  customs  as  tight-lacing,  afternoon  tea- 
drinking,  late  hours,  and  unhealthy  excitement. 

Her  face,  oval  in  shape,  was  one  of  those  which  one  sees  in 
the  paintings  of  Murillo,  the  eyes  dark  and  dreamy,  yet  with 
the  "  maiden  fierceness  "  smoldering,  as  it  were,  within  their 
depths.  The  mouth  was  not  small  by  any  means,  but  it  spoke 
ere  the  words  left  her  lips,  so  facile  of  expression  was  it.  Her 
hair  was  of  that  dark  rich  brown  which,  because  it  has  the  gold 
and  the  russet  of  an  autumn  leaf  in  ifc,  we  call  auburn,  and 
there  was  so  much  of  it  that  Lyra  was  often  tempted  to  cut  it 
off;  for  it  got  in  her  way  when  she  was  rowing  the  boat  across 
the  river  to  the  little  village  of  Peterel  on  the  other  side,  and 
when  the  wind  blew  it  about  her  face  as  she  walked  across  the 
hills  above  the  valley. 

But  if  an  artist  would  have  fallen  into  a  rapture  at  the 
beauty  of  her  face,  a  musician  would  have  been  as  delighted  at 
the  music  of  her  voice.  Naturally  clear  in  tone,  her  life  in 
these  fogless  regions,  in  which  the  sea  and  the  moorland  air 
combined,  had  made  her  voice  full  and  round  and  bell-like; 
though  she  spoke  in  the  low  tones  which  become  habitual  to 
those  who  dwell  far  from  the  madding  crowd. 

In  short,  to  sum  up  in  the  passionate  words  of  an  Eliza- 
bethan poet: 

"  Sweetness  itself  was  she;  none  other  in  the  world  so  sweet  to  me." 

And  all  this  sweetness  was  wasted  on  the  desert  air. 

And  yet  Lyra  did  not  complain,  nor  was  she  unhappy.  How 


8  OKCE    IK    A    LIFE. 

can  they  be  unhappy  whom  the  gods  have  blessed  with  youth, 
and  health,  and  strength,  and  a  nature  which  can  find  some- 
thing to  love  in  the  babbling  brook,  the  singing  birds,  the 
flowing  tide? 

But  these — and  her  books — were  all  Lyra  had.  Though 
her  father  had  not  forbidden  her  to  go  to  the  town,  which, 
with  its  thin  crown  of  filmy  smoke,  lay  in  the  hollow  of  the 
hills,  Lyra  knew  that  he  did  not  like  her  to  go;  and  all  her 
walks  were  taken  over  the  hills,  by  the  low  river-banks,  and 
up  the  leafy  valley  in  which  the  cottage  nestled;  and  if  she 
wanted  any  other  exercise,  why,  there  was  the  boat,  which  she 
could  sail,  and  row  as  skillfully,  if  not  as  strongly,  as  any  fish- 
erman on  the  estuary. 

If  sometimes,  as  she  wandered  over  the  hills  or  lay  back  in 
the  drifting  boat,  she  wondered  what  the  great  world  was  like, 
the  world  of  which  she  read  in  her  books,  the  wonder  was 
untouched  by  discontent.  She  lived  in  a  world  of  her  own,  a 
land  of  dreams,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  time  of  awakening, 
that  hour  in  which  the  soul  springs  into  passionate  life,  as  that 
of  the  Sleeping  Beauty  was  awakened  by  the  kiss  of  the  ad- 
venturous prince,  would  never  dawn  for  her;  as  if  all  her  life 
would  pass  away  untroubled,  eventless,  in  the  secluded  valley 
by  the  waste  of  sand  and  fast-flowing  tide,  innocent  of  all  that 
makes  the  joy  and  the  misery  of  her  sisters  in  the  great  world 
far  away. 

God  makes  woman  perfect;  man  spoils  her;  love  redeems 
her.  The  hour  was  at  hand. 

One  day  in  June,  she  stood  at  the  door  of  the  cottage,  her 
slim  figure,  in  its  well-worn  serge  frock,  drawn  to  its  full 
height,  as  she  held  above  her  head  a  bowl  of  corn  with  which 
she  was  feeding  a  flock  of  pigeons  that  fluttered  excitedly  round 
her,  so  fearless  in  their  affection  and  impatience  that  they 
stood  upon  her  feet  and  buffeted  with  their  wings  her  golden- 
tinged  hair. 

She  knew  them  all  by  name,  and  chided  them  laughingly 
for  their  greediness,  sometimes  pushing  them  gently  from  her 
head,  or  as  gently  throwing  them  off  the  bowl  with  her  hand. 
A  hen  and  a  brood  of  chickens  clucked  and  chirped  about  her 
feet,  and  a  dog,  with  the  dog's  cheerful  readiness  to  take  part 
in  any  noise,  jumped  up  at  her,  barking  and  yelping  lovingly. 

The  bent  figure  of  an  old,  deformed  and  hunchbacked  man 
came  down  the  path  beside  the  water-wheel,  with  a  load  of 
wood  on  his  back,  and  paused  to  look  at  her  with  an  expression 
of  devotion  on  his  warped  face  as  dog-like  in  its  intensity  as 
the  dog's  own. 


OKCE    IN"    A    LIFE.  9 

"  Down!  Carlo,  down!"  he  said  in  a  thin,  strained  voice, 
as  if  it  came  from  his  narrow  chest  with  difficulty.  "  You  let 
'em  tear  you  to  pieces,  Miss  Lyra." 

Lyra  laughed  softly.  Her  laugh  was  like  her  voice,  full  of 
music,  but  soft  and  subdued,  as  if  she  were  more  accustomed 
to  laughing  to  herself  for  her  only  audience. 

"  No,  no,  Griffith,"  she  said.  "  It  is  all  right;  he  is  doing 
no  harm.  Where  are  you  going?"  For  he  had  put  down  the 
load  of  wood,  and  was  going  down  the  path  that  led  from  the 
house. 

"  The  master  wants  something  from  Peterel." 

Lyra  flung  the  remains  of  the  corn  into  the  air. 

"  I'll  go,  Griffith,"  she  said.     "  You  are  tired. " 

"  No,  no,  Miss  Lyra."  v 

"  But  you  are,"  she  insisted.  "  I  can  see  that  by  the  way 
you  walk;  and  you  have  carried  that  great  pile  of  wood  from 
the  woods.  I'll  go;  I  should  like  the  row.  Now,  don't  be 
ibstinate,  there's  a  good  Griffith.  Besides,  it  isn't  any  use.  I 
"ways  have  my  way  in  the  end,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  Miss  Lyra,"  he  said,  in  a  gentler  voice  than  one 
would  have  deemed  him  capable  of,  judging  by  his  rugged  ex- 
terior, "  and  from  the  beginning.  Well,  I'll  get  the  boat 
ready." 

Lyra  turned  and  entered  the  cottage.  She  moved  quickly, 
though  gracefully,  with  the  gait  of  a  girl  whose  limbs  are 
under  perfect  command,  and  went  into  the  little  sitting-room, 
where  her  father  was  sitting  reading,  with  the  blinds  down,  as 
if  he  were  desirous  of  shutting  out  the  bright,  warm  June 
sunlight. 

She  glided  up  to  him,  and  bending  over  him,  put  her  arms 
round  his  neck.  He  suffered  the  caress  of  the  sweet  young 
arms,  but  did  not  return  it. 

"  What  is  it  you  want  at  Peterel,  father?" 

He  raised  his  eyes  from  the  book  and  gazed  before  him, 
blinking  vacantly. 

"  At  Peterel?  I  want  nothing.  Yes,  I  remember;  I  want 
the  London  paper.  They  take  it  at  Greely's  farm.  He 
offered  to  lend  it  to  me  whenever  I  wanted  to  see  it." 

Lyra  laughed  very  softly. 

"  Yes,  I  recollect.     But  that  was — what? — a  year  ago?" 

"  And  I  have  not  wanted  to  see  it  till  now,"  he  said,  his 
eyes  returning  to  his  book. 

"  Very  well,  father,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  suppose  Mr.  Greely 
has  forgotten.  Is  there  anything  else?" 

He  looked  up  with  weak  impatience. 


10  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

"  What?  Where  are  you  going?"  he  asked,  as  if  the  sub- 
ject had  passed  from  his  memory. 

"ToPeterel.  All  right,  father."  She  touched  his  head 
with  her  lips — a  kiss  as  light  as  thistle-down — and  leaving  the 
room,  caught  up  the  sun-browned,  weather-stained  hat,  and 
ran  down  the  path  to  where  the  brook  emptied  itself  into  the 
river. 

The  tide  was  coming  up,  creeping  up  slowly — for  it  was  not 
a  rushing  spring-tide — and  Griffith  was  standing  keeping  the 
boat  afloat. 

"  I  should  think  there's  enough  water  for  you  to  get  across, 
Miss  Lyra,"  he  said,  bending  his  shoulder  for  her  to  rest  her 
hand  upon  as  she  sprung  into  the  boat;  and  she  did  so  rest 
her  hand,  though  she  did  not  need  his  assistance. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  said.  "  I  sha'n't  be  gone  long,  Griffith; 
look  after  father." 

He  stood  and  watched  her  for  a  moment  or  two,  then  turned 
to  the  house,  his  lips  moving  with  a  "  God  bless  her!"  but 
a  voice  that  would  have  better  harmonized  with  a  curse — the 
harsh,  guttural  under-tone  of  the  hunchback. 

Lyra  rowed  against  the  incoming  tide  for  a  few  minutes, 
then  let  the  boat  swing  half  round  till  its  nose  pointed  to  the 
opposite  shore,  and  took  it  straight  across. 

She  knew  every  inch  of  the  river,  knew  where  the  sand 
raised  itself  into  hillocks,  upon  which  the  boat,  if  not  kept 
clear  of  them,  would  strike  and  stick  fast,  and  in  another  ten 
minutes  she  had  reached  the  opposite  bank,  pulled  up  the  boat, 
and  walked  to  the  farm. 

It  was  a  small  farm,  lying  almost  close  to  the  bank,  and  the 
farmer's  wife  had  seen  her  coming  across,  and  was  out  to  meet 
her. 

"  Why,  Miss  Lyra,  you  be  a  stranger!"  she  exclaimed,  wip- 
ing her  hands  on  her  apron,  and  looking  up  at  the  girl's  lovely 
face  with  the  wistful  admiration  of  a  woman  from  whom  girl- 
hood has  gone  forever.  "  You're  looking  bonny,  too.  Come 
in,  come  in." 

As  they  entered  the  farm  a  batch  cf  children  came  rushing 
out  and  surrounded  Lyra,  very  much  as  the  poultry  had  don') 
a  few  minutes  before. 

She  had  a  kind  word  for  them  all,  and  caresses  for  the 
youngest,  who,  caught  up  in  her  arms,  threatened  by  its  em- 
braces to  pull  down  the  thick  coil  of  leaf-brown  hair,  till  re- 
strained by  her  anxious  mother. 

"  Put  her  down,  Miss  Lyra,  put  her  down,"  she  said. 
"  Polly,  how  can  you?" 


ONCE    IK    A    LIFE.  11 

"  Never  mind,,"  said  Lyra,  laughing,  as  the  hair  at  last 
came  tumbling  down.  "  It  doesn't  matter.  I  can  wind  it 
up;  besides,  there  is  no  one  to  see  me." 

She  made  the  observation  artlessly  enough,  but  the  woman 
sighed  regretfully  as  she  echoed  it. 

"  No,  there's  no  one  to  see  you,  miss,  more's  the  pity,"  she 
said. 

Lyra  did  not  notice  the  response  or  its  tone,  and  made  her 
request  for  the  paper. 

The  newspaper!  Yes,  Mis?  Lyra,  certainly.  Now,  where 
did  I  see  it?  Joseph  was  reading  it  last  night  in  that  chair. 
Oh!  here  it  is.  Lor'!  it  isn't  often  Mr.  Chester  asks  to  see 
the  paper.  Hope  it  isn't  bad  news  he's  expecting,  Miss  Lyra?" 


CHAPTEE  II. 

"  BAD  news?"  said  Lyra,  rather  vaguely.  Two  children 
were  in  her  lap,  and  the  others  were  clustering  round  her. 
If'  No;  I  think  not.  I  don't  think  my  father  expects  any 
news  at  all.  We  never  hear  any. " 

"  You  never  go  into  the  town,  Miss  Lyra?" 

Lyra  shook  her  head. 

"  Never,"  she  said.  "  Now,  Johnny,  I'll  tell  you  the  story 
of  your  namesake,  the  giant-killer.  Well,  come  on  my  knee, 
then.  I  think  we  can  make  room;  can't  we,  Polly?" 

While  she  told  the  grand  old  story,  Mrs.  Greely  hastened  to 
get  a  cup  of  tea.  They  give  you  tea  in  Devonshire  at  all 
hours,  just  as  in  the  Rhine  provinces  they  give  you  wine.  If 
you  rushed  into  a  Devonshire  cottage  to  tell  them  that  the 
world  was  coming  to  an  end,  they  would  insist  upon  you  tak- 
mg  tea,  cakes,  and  cream. 

Lyra  drank  her  cup  of  tea,  and  with  the  folded  paper  in  her 
pocket  went  back  to  the  boat. 

The  tide  had  been  flowing  silently,  steadily,  and  the  sand- 
banks in  the  river-bed  had  disappeared.  She  got  into  the 
boat,  pushed  off,  and  began  to  row  for  the  opposite  shore. 

For  perhaps  the  first  time  in  her  life  she — Lyra,  the  Taw 
maiden — miscalculated  the  height  of  the  tide.  Thinking  that 
she  could  row  straight  across  as  the  crow  flies,  she  pulled  a 
vigorous,  careless  stroke,  and  lo!  in  midstream  the  keel  of  the 
boat  struck  one  of  the  sand-banks,  the  boat  swung  round,  and 
there  she  was,  aground! 

She  jumped  up  and  tried  to  push  it  off  into  deep  water;  but 
&.&  had  rowed  hard,  and  the  keel  was  imbedded  in  the  soft, 
tenacious  sand.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  wait  until 


12  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

the  tide  flowed  higher  and  floated  her  off.  Accordingly, 
she  leaned  back  in  the  stern  of  the  boat  to  wait  patiently. 

The  sun  poured  down  upon  her  in  a  manner  which  would 
have  filled  a  London  beauty  with  despair;  for,  where  the  sun 
falls  upon  the  human  face  divine,  there  grow  freckles.  But 
Lyra  was  indifferent  to  freckles,  and  the  state  of  her  complex- 
ion troubled  her  not,  so  the  sun-god  reveled  in  her  beauty 
unchecked. 

As  she  leaned  back,  gazing  dreamily  over  the  waste  of 
waters,  the  sea-gulls  hovered  over  her,  wheeling  in  their  flight, 
and  uttering  their  weird,  shrill  cries;  and  one  or  two  of  the 
flock,  made  daring  by  her  stillness  and  the  brooding  silence, 
swept  down  almost  as  low  as  her  face. 

The  air  was  full  of  life  and  the  delight  of  life;  the  sun  stirred 
the  young  blood  within  her.  She  rose  presently  with  an  oar  in 
her  hand — not  the  light  scull  which  ladies  play  with  on  smaller 
rivers,  but  a  stout,  serviceable,  heavy  oar — and  shading  her 
eyes  with  her  hand,  looked  before  her  seaward.  Then,  as  the 
gulls  audaciously  swooped  round  her,  she  dropped  her  oar, 
and  waving  her  arms,  shouted  loudly,  though  musically, 
laughing,  as  the  birds,  scared  by  the  sudden  cry  and  movement, 
flew  shrieking  beyond  her  reach. 

Now,  five  minutes  before,  while  she  had  been  lying  dream- 
ing in  the  stern  of  the  boat,  a  young  man  had  appeared  on  the 
bank.  He  had  been  walking  briskly  enough,  with  his  back  to 
Barnstaple,  but  with  rather  a  careless  and  unobservant  air. 
He  was  a  remarkably  good-looking  young  fellow,  and,  even 
for  these  days  of  athleticism,  strikingly  well  made  and  stal- 
wart. 

He  dressed  in  a  knickerbocker  suit  of  rough  tweed,  and  he 
wore  the  suit  as  a  gentleman  does;  with  that  air  of  uncon- 
scious ease  which  distinguishes  the  true  gentleman  from  the 
make-believe.  One  would  describe  his  appearance — the 
cleanly  cut  features,  the  steady  but  brilliant  eye,  the  graceful 
form  of  the  well-knit  figure — as  patrician;  but,  unfortunately, 
so  many  patricians  nowadays  possess  anything  but  well-knit 
frames,  brilliant  eyes  and  cleanly  cut  features;  indeed,  a  great 
many  of  them  are  too  terribly  commonplace  in  face,  manner 
and  appearance. 

This  young  man  strode  along  swinging  his  stick,  and  fol- 
lowed by  a  wiry  fox-terrier,  walking  fast,  but  as  if  he  were 
putting  on  the  pace  rather  for  his  own  amusement  than  an 
object,  and  with  his  eyes  steadily  fixed  before  him. 

It  was  not  until  Lyra  had  rowed  some  distance  from  the 
opposite  shore  that  he  chanced  to  look  that  way  and  saw  her. 


ONCE    IK    A    LIFE.  13 

He  did  not  stop  even  then,  but  walked  on,  looking  at  her  and 
admiring  her  long,  steady  strokes. 

"  Jove!"  he  said  to  himself,  "  wouldn't  disgrace  a  'varsity 
boat.  If  some  of  our  fellows  would  come  down  to  a  place  like 
this  and  take  lessons  of  a  fisherman — or  a  fisherman's  daugh- 
ter, for  that  matter — they'd  get  a  sight  of  good." 

As  he  made  this  wise  reflection  Lyra  struck  upon  the  sand- 
bank, and  the  stroke  he  had  so  much  admired  came  to  a  sud- 
den cessation. 

He  stopped  and  leaned  on  his  stick. 

"  Run  aground,"  he  murmured.  "  Now  I  wonder  whether 
she'll  be  able  to  get  it  off?  The  tide's  rising,  so  she's  all 
right,  I  suppose." 

He  stood  watching,  quite  easy  in  his  mind,  until  Lyra's 
sudden  uprising  and  gesticulation. 

Certainly,  to  a  man  standing  at  some  distance  from  the  boat, 
it  looked  as  if  the  occupant  had  got  into  trouble,  and  had  sud- 
denly become  painfully  aware  of  the  fact;  in  fact,  it  looked  to 
him  "as  if  Lyra  was  in  a  terrible  state  of  fright. 

"  George!  something  has  happened,"  he  exclaimed  to  him- 
self; "  she's  lost  her  nerve,  or  the  boat's  keeling  over  and  fill- 
ing." 

At  that  moment  Lyra,  all  unconscious  of  a  spectator  and 
listener,  uttered  a  louder  cry  and  swung  her  arms  above  her 
head. 

To  him  the  cry  was  a  cry  for  help,  the  gesture  of  one  in  de- 
spair. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  she's  in  a  deuce  of  a  fix.  She's  as  likely 
as  not  to  upset  that  cockle-shell,  and  then — " 

He  looked  at  the  tide,  now  flowing  fast  and  rather  angrily, 
and  then  at  the  boat,  and  he  lifted  his  voice  in  what  he  in- 
tended to  be  a  shout  of  encouragement.  Unfortunately  for 
him,  or  for  her — how  fate  mocks  us! — the  shrilling  of  the  sea- 
gulls was  in  Lyra's  ears,  and  she  did  not  hear  him,  and  as  if 
in  response  to  his  shout,  she  uttered  another  cry. 

"  Well,  there's  nothing  else  for  it,"  he  said,  with  an  ah*  of 
resignation.  "  I  don't  mind  a  swim,  though  I  should  prefer 
it  without  my  clothes.  Bother  the  girl!  I  can't  stand  here 
and  see  her  drown,  and  I  suppose  she  will  drown." 

He  took  off  his  Norfolk  jacket  and  waistcoat  with  a  leis- 
urely kind  of  quickness,  and,  after  wading  into  the  stream  as 
far  as  he  could,  took  to  swimming,  and  swam  toward  the  boat. 

That  is  to  say,  he  swam  toward  the  boat  for  the  first  few 
yards;  then  the  stream  took  hold  of  him  bodily,  irresistibly, 
and  bore  him  upward. 


14  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  ~ 

"  Confound  it!  who'd  have  thought  it  ran  so  hard?"  he 
muttered. 

But  he  fought  against  it  with  that  stolid  kind  of  steadfast- 
ness which  distinguishes  your  practiced  athlete,  and  just  to  let 
the  damsel  in  distress  know  that  he  was  hastening  to 'Tier  res- 
cue, shouted  to  her  encouragingly. 

This  tune  Lyra  heard  the  shout,  and  turning  her  head,  saw 
him — saw  him  with  amazement,  for  never  in  her  life  before 
had  she  seen  a  man  swimming  in  the  tide-way  of  the  Taw. 
For,  sad  to  say,  persons  living  by  &  river  are  not  given  to 
bathing. 

She  watched  him  with  surprise  and  much  interest;  but  sud- 
denly the  astonishment  and  interest  changed  to  a  deeper  feel- 
ing. 

Tidal  rivers  are  dangerous  for  strangers.  They  are  full  of 
tinder-currents  which,  though  unseen,  are  deadly  strong,  and 
as  deadly  deceitful.  The  young  fellow  was  in  the  grip  of  one 
of  these  currents,  and  as  she  looked  she  saw  him  being  borne 
along  against  his  will,  against  his  struggles. 

Lyra  imew  that  a  man  caught  in  such  a  current  might  fight 
in  vain  to  reach  the  shore,  that  he  might  struggle  and  struggle 
until  his  breath  and  strength  were  gone,  and  then  the  swirling 
river  would  suck  him  under  its  deceitfully  calm  surface. 

Her  face  grew  pale,  and  for  a  moment  she  stood  transfixed 
by  his  danger;  then  the  blood  rushing  to  her  face  with  shame 
for  her  moment  of  irresolution,  she  caught  up  the  oar,  easily 
pushed  the  boat  off  the  sand-bank,  and  rowed  to  the  swimmer. 

Perhaps  because  her  heart  was  beating  fast  she  did  not  row 
as  strongly  and  steadily  as  usual,  and  the  current — a  different 
one  to  that  in  which  the  young  man  was  struggling — bore  her 
away  from  him. 

Looking  over  her  shoulder,  she  saw  his  head  sinking  lower, 
saw  his  strokes  becoming  more  rapid — a  mistake  which  a  swim- 
mer in  difficulties  always  must  make — and  a  low  cry  of  alarm 
escaped  her  lips. 

Then  she  set  herself  to  her  task,  kept  the  nose  of  the  boat 
straight,  and  sent  it  rushing  through  the  water.  She  was 
almost  within  reach  of  him;  she  could  see  his  face,  pale  but 
quite  fearless,  when  he  suddenly  disappeared. 

She  did  not  cry  out,  but  she  held  the  boat  up  against  the 
current,  so  that  it  might  not  pass  over  him,  and  leaned  over 
the  side. 

She  came  up  close  to  him.  He  was  conscious  still;  she  could 
see  that  much  as  she  made  a  grasp  at  him;  but  the  boat 
swerved,  and  he  was  swept  bey^rul  her  reach. 


ONCE    Iff    A    LIFE.  16 

Then  she  called  to  him,  her  clear  voice  thrilling  above  th'J 
swish  of  the  tide  against  the  sides  of  the  hoat: 

"Keep  still!    Float!  float!" 

He  must  have  heard  her,  or  he  followed  the  natural  impulse 
of  an  accomplished  swimmer,  for  he  turned  on  his  back.  In 
another  instant  she  had  sent  the  boat  toward  him,  and  leaning 
over  now,  so  that  the  gunwale  almost  touched  the  water, 
seized  him  by  his  shirt. 

She  held  him  by  a  grip  like  that  of  a  vise,  but  she  could  not, 
of  course,  lift  him. 

"  Cling  to  the  boat!"  she  said. 

He  assented  with  a  rather  languid  movement  of  his  eyelids 
and  what  was  intended  for  a  smile,  and  he  put  up  his  hand 
and  seized  the  side  of  the  boat.  She  put  her  hand  upon  his — 
it  struck  very,  very  cold — as  if  she  would  hold  hire,  by  sheer 
force;  and  so  they  drifted  for  a  hundred  yards. 

Then  he  put  up  the  other  hand,  and,  as  she  careened  the 
boat  over  to  him,  and  put  her  strong  young  arms  around  him, 
he  slowly  and  none  too  easily  drew  himself  into  it. 

He  lay  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat  for  some  moments,  pant- 
ing like  a  man  who  had  been  run  out  of  breath,  then  he  rose 
into  a  sitting  posture,  and  pushing  the  hair  from  his  fore- 
head, said,  rather  breathlessly: 

"  Fm  afraid  I  don't  understand  the  rules  of  this  game." 

Lyra  looked  at  him.  She  was  bending  forward,  the  sculls 
in  both  hands  keeping  the  boat  straight.  The  color  was  com- 
ing and  going  in  her  face,  her  eyes  were  full  of  a  divine  pity, 
a  human  gratitude. 

"  What?"  she  murmured,  faintly. 

He  hoisted  himself  upon  the  stern  thwart. 

"  I  beg  jour  pardon,  but  Fm  afraid  I  don't  understand  the 
rules  of  this  game." 

"  Game!"  she  echoed,  looking  at  him,  the  red  dyeing  her 
face  one  moment  and  fading  the  next. 

"  No,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh  that  was  rather  shaky.  "  You 
are  all  right,  I  hope?" 

Lyra  stared  at  him,  her  brows  straightening.  They  were 
darker  than  her  hair,  ,snd  did  marvelous  things  in  the  way  of 
expression. 

I  all  right?    I?    Oh!  yes,  yes!    But  you — how  could  you 
v— -could  you  bathe  in  the  river  without  knowing  the  currents?" 

Then  she  stopped,  as  it  struck  her  that  he  could  not  have 
intended  to  bathe  in  his  clothes. 

It  was  his  turn  to  stare,  and  he  took  his  innings  to  the  full. 

"Bathe!"  he  exclaimed.     "How  could  I  bathe!"    Then 


.16  ONCE    IK    A    LIFE. 

he  burst  into  a  laugh,  a  short,  almost  fierce  laugh.  "  Well' 
— oh,  I  wish  you  weren't  here!" 

"  Wish  I  weren't  here!"  Lyra's  L;ps  reformed  his  words. 

"  Yes;  because  I  should  like  to  swear — swear  hard!  But  I 
beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  abruptly.  He  had  been  looking  at 
her,  had  seen  by  this  time  that  she  was  no  fisherman's  daugh- 
ter, no  farm  wench.  "  It  was  your  joke,  and  you  are  fully 
entitled  to  it." 

"  My  joke!"  Lyra  stopped  rowing,  and  opened  her  lovely 
eyes  upon  him.  "My  joke!  I  don't  know  what  you  mean;" 
and  there  was  a  note  of  indignation  in  her  amazement. 

He  wrung  the  water  of  the  Taw  from  his  shirt-sleeves  and 
his  knickerbockers,  and  laughed. 

"  Weren't  you  in  difficulties?"  he  said.  "  But  I  see  now  you 
weren't.  You  pushed  the  boat  off  quite  easily.  I  thought  it 
was  keeling  over,  that  you  were  calling  for  assistance." 

Lyra  flushed  crimson. 

"  I — I  was  calling  to  the  birds,  frightening  the  gulls,"  she 
faltered. 

He  stopped  in  his  wringing  process  and  gazed  at  her,  and  as 
he  gazed,  her  beauty  smote  him  more  fully;  he  forgot  her  re- 
sponse almost  in  his  intense  appreciation  of  her  fresh  young 
loveliness. 

"  Calling  to  the  gulls?  Oh,  by  Jove!"  and  he  laughed  in 
self -derision.  "  I  thought  you  were  shouting  for  help." 

"I?"  said  Lyra,  open-eyed.  "  The  boat  was  aground,  and 
I  had  only  to  wait  till  the  tide  rose  and  floated  it.  And — and 
it  was  because  you  thought  I  was  in  danger  that — that — " 

He  nodded  as  he  took  off  his  shoes  and  poured  the  water 
out  of  them.  It  is  wonderful  how  much  water  a  shoe  will 
hold. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  the  story  of  the  man  in  the  train?"  he 
asked. 

She  did  not  shake  her  head,  but  he  took  her  silence  as  a 
confession  of  ignorance,  and  went  on: 

"  A  man  in  the  train  moaned  or  groaned.  The  passenger 
opposite  him  took  out  a  flask  of  brandy  and  kindly  offered  it 
to  nim.  The  other  fellow  looked  rather  surprised,  but  took  a 
drink  and  returned  the  flask.  When  they  got  to  the  terminus, 
the  man  who  had  offered  his  flask  leaned  forward  and  said: 

"  '  I  hope  you  are  better  now.' 

"  '  Better?'  said  the  other.  *  Why,  nothing  is  the  matter 
with  me.  I'm  not  ill.' 

"  '  Not  ill?'  said  the  Good  Samaritan.  '  Why,  I  heard  you 
groaning.' 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  17 

"  '  Groaning!'  exclaimed  the  other.  '  Oh,  no!  I  was  only 
singing/  ' 

Lyra  smiled;  she  could  not  laugh.  Through  her  brain — 
through  her  heart — ran  the  whisper:  "  He  thought  you  were 
in  danger;  he  has  risked  his  life  for  you."  Then  she  said — 
and  what  a  miserable  commonplace  it  sounded: 

"  I — I  am  afraid  you  are  very  wet." 

He  laughed. 

"  Yes,  that  about  describes  my  condition;"  but  his  careless 
tone  changed,  under  the  tender  expression  in  her  eyes,  to  a 
more  serious  one.  "  There's  nothing  in  that.  I  was  just 
looking  out  for  an  excuse  for  a  swim,  and,  really  and  truly, 
I'm  immensely  obliged  to  you.  But  I'm  afraid  I've  given 
you  a  great  deal  of  trouble  and  a  fright  into  the  bargain.  I 
didn't  take  the  current  into  consideration." 

Lyra's  face  grew  a  shade  paler,  and  her  eloquent  eyes 
drooped — hid  themselves  behind  their  lids,  lest  he  should  see 
the  emotion  in  them. 

"  You — you  were  nearly — " 

She  could  not  go  on. 

"  Nearly  done,  do  you  mean?"  he  said,  carelessly.  "Yes, 
I  suppose  I  was.  I  don't  know  why,  for  I'm  not  a  bad  swim- 
mer. The  sudden  cold  of  the  water  after  the  heat — and  I 
fancy  I  felt  a  touch  of  cramp."  Lyra  shuddered.  "But 
please — please  don't  be  concerned  about  me;  I'm  all  right," 
he  laughed.  "  I  shall  be  dry  before  we  get  to  the  shore." 

A  silence  fell  upon  them  both.  She  rowed  on;  he  sat  press- 
ing the  water  from  his  shirt-sleeves  and  smoothing  his  short 
hair,  which  seemed  to  be  almost  dry  already. 

Lyra  looked  at  him  without  seeming  to  look  at  him.  All 
women — the  most  innocent  and  unsophisticated — know  how 
to  perform  this  trick;  they  learn  it  in  their  cradles. 

She  noticed  the  fashion  of  his  garments;  the  shapely,  sun- 
tanned hands,  with  the  thick  gold  ring  on  the  fourth  finger  of 
the  left;  the  handsome  face,  with  its  short-cut,  military-look- 
ing mustache;  the  dark  eyes,  brilliant  again  now. 

She  had  never  in  all  her  life  seen  any  man  like  this  one; 
and  he — well,  he  could  not,  like  a  woman,  "  look  without 
looking;"  but  as  he  sat  there  he  was  conscious  of  the  lovely 
face,  of  the  grace  of  the  lithe  figure,  of  the  half -proudly  shy, 
half -grateful  light  in  the  lovely  eyes;  and  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life,  this  man — not  a  very  good  man,  by  the  way;  a  man 
who  knew  all  the  ways  of  this  wicked  world  of  ours — felt  sub- 
dued and  quieted. 

The  boat  touched  the  shore,  and,  as  if  awaking  from  a  spell, 


18  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

he  leaped  out  and  offered  her  his  hand.  She  just  touched  it 
and  stood  at  his  side. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  as  she  began  to  pull  the  boat  in;  and 
silently  she  stood  aside  and  let  him  do  it. 

"  My  coat  and  waistcoat  are  along  there,"  he  said.  "  I'll  " 
— for  perhaps  the  first  time  in  his  life  his  voice  faltered  in 
addressing  a  woman — "  I'll  wish  you  good -afternoon." 

She  stood  with  downcast  eyes  for  an  instant;  then  she  raised 
them,  but  did  not  look  at  him,  but  at  the  opposite  shore. 

He  took  her  silence  for  his  dismissal. 

"  Yes.  Good-afternoon.  I'd  thank  you  for  saving  my  life  " 
— she  turned  to  him  with  a  swift,  eloquent  protest — "but  I 
know  you  wouldn't  care  for  that  sort  of  thing;  nobody  does. 
'Pon  my  word,  I  don't  know  why,  most  people  set  a  goodly 
store  by  their  lives,  and  fight  hard  enough  for  them!" 

Lyra  opened  her  lips  as  if  about  to  speak,  but  at  the  instant 
footsteps  sounded  behind  them,  and  the  thin,  bent  figure  of 
her  father  came  up. 

"  Have  you  got  the  paper,  Lyra?"  he  said,  as  if  the  pres- 
ence of  the  young  man  were  unnoticed  by  him. 

"  Yes,  father,"  she  said.  Her  voice  faltered  slightly,  and 
she  waved  her  hand  toward  the  stranger,  as  if  calling  her  fa- 
ther's attention  to  him. 

Mr.  Chester  raised  his  lack-luster  eyes  and  blinked. 

"  He  has  been  nearly  drowned,"  said  Lyra,  trying  to  speak 
carelessly,  coolly — why,  she  could  not  have  told. 

"  That's  true,  sir,"  said  the  young  man;  "  and  should  have 
been  quite,  but  for  your  daughter." 

Mr.  Chester  blinked  at  him  in  silent  apathy  for  a  moment, 
as  if  nearly  drowned  young  men  were  always  on  supply. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  dreamily.  "  You  had  better  come  in  and 
dry  your  clothes." 

The  young  fellow  hesitated,  and  looked  from  Lyra  to  her 
father,  and  then  at  the  river,  and  at  his  own  boots,  and  then 
at  Lyra  again,  while  the  fox-terrier  yapped  quite  plainly, 
"  Why  don't  you  accept?"  She  stood  silent,  motionless, 
palely  statuesque.  The  woman  who  hesitates  is  lost;  how 
much  more  often  is  she  lost  when  the  man  hesitates! 

"  Thanks!"  he  said,  at  last,  and  almost  curtly.  "  I  think 
I  will."  And  so  the  hour  of  Lyra's  awakening  was  on  the 
point  of  striking. 


19 


CHAPTEE  III. 

THE  young  man  followed  Mr.  Chester  into  tha  cottage. 
Lyra  remained  by  the  boat  for  a  few  minutes,  looking  dream- 
ily across  the  river  to  the  spot  where  she  had  snatched  him  out 
of  the  jaws  of  death;  then  she  too  entered  the  house  and  found 
the  other  two  engaged  in  discussing  the  young  fellow's  wet 
clothes. 

"  I  don't  know  what's  to  be  done,"  Mr.  Chester  was  saying 
in  a  rather  querulous  tone.  "  You  must  be  wet — very  wet,  of 
course,  and  ought  to  dry  your  things.  But  I  don't  know  what 
you  are  to  wear;  you  couldn't  get  into  anything  of  mine,  and 
there's  no  one  else.  You  wouldn't  like  to  go  to  bed,  I  sup- 
pose?" he  suggested. 

The  young  fellow  laughed.  He  was  seated  by  the  window 
in  the  hot  sunlight,  and  seemed  to  be  as  much  at  ease  as  if  he 
had  known  his  host  for  years. 

"  I  certainly  should  not,"  he  said.  "  Please  don't  trouble 
about  me.  My  things  are  nearly  dry  by  this  time,  and  if  they 
weren't  it  wouldn't  matter.  It's  salt  water,  you  know;  and, 
besides,  I'm  used  to  getting  wet;  I'm  always  wading  about 
when  I'm  fishing.  It  doesn't  in  the  least  matter." 

Mr.  Chester  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly. 

"  It  would  be  the  death  of  me,"  he  remarked. 

There  was  a  moment  or  two  of  silence.  Lyra  had  taken  off 
her  hat  and  was  spreading  the  cloth  for  lunch.  The  young 
fellow  allowed  his  eyes  to  wander  round  the  room  with  its 
dark,  old-fashioned  furniture  and  closely  crammed  book-ease, 
its  antique  copper-plate  engravings,  and  well-worn  carpet. 
Then  his  gaze  settled  on  Lyra.  She  was  like  a  beautiful  flower 
in  a  dusky  garden — a  spot  of  delicious  color  and  light. 

"Are  you  a  stranger  in  these  parts?"  asked  Mr.  Chester, 
holding  his  book  with  his  thumb  between  the  pages,  as  if  he 
were  only  waiting  for  the  visitor  to  take  himself  off  to  resume 
his  reading. 

"  Quite,"  was  the  reply.  "  I  came  down  here  for  somo 
fishing,  but  the  late  heavy  rams  have  made  the  streams  too 
thick,  and  I'm  waiting  for  it  to  clear.  I  ought  to  tell  you  my 
name,"  he  added,  with  an  easy  frankness.  "  It  is  Armitage 
— Dane  Armitage." 

Mr.  Chester  nodded  and  smiled  f  aintly. 

"  Yes?  Mine  is  Chester.  This  is  my  daughter  Lyra."  He 
smiled  again.  "  It  is  a  strange  introduction." 


20  ONCE  nr  A  LIFE. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  younger  man,  rather  quietly.  "  If  it  had 
not  been  for  Miss  Chester's  pluck  and  presence  of  mind,  there 
wouldn't  have  been  any  introduction  at  all." 

Most  fathers  would  have  looked  pleased  at  this  tribute  to 
their  daughter's  courage,  but  Mr.  Chester  only  nodded  ab- 
sently. 

"Dane!  It's  a  singular  Christian  name,"  he  said,  mus- 
ingly. 

The  owner  of  the  singular  name  laughed. 

"  Isn't  it?  I  don't  know  why  my  godfathers  and  god- 
mothers bestowed  it  on  me;  though  I  fancy  it  is  an  old  family 
name.  I've  an  aunt  who  firmly  believes  that  we  had  some- 
thing to  do,  in  the  past,  with  the  Danes  who  first  came  over 
and  made  themselves  unpleasant  in  Britain.  It's  strange  how 
anxious  most  respectable  and  honest  people  are  to  claim  kin- 
ship with  a  band  of  robbers,  whether  they  came  over  with 
William  the  Conqueror  or  any  one  else.  It  doesn't  matter  so 
that  it  happened  a  long  while  ago." 

Mr.  Chester  nodded  and  blinked  absently. 

"  We  are  of  the  Chesters  of  Lowickshire,"  he  began,  then 
stopped. 

Yes?    I  know  some  of  them,"  said  Dane  Armitage,  cas- 
ually. 

"  Oh,  I  haven't  seen  any  of  my  people  for  years — many 
years,"  Mr.  Chester  made  haste  to  remark;  then,  as  if  desir- 
ous of  getting  away  from  the  subject,  he  went  on  to  inquire  if 
the  fishing  was  good  on  the  river. 

"  Yes,  I  believe  so — I'm  told  so.     You  don't  fish?" 

Mr.  Chester  shook  his  head. 

"  No,"  he  said.  "  I  have  never  been  up  to  the  fresh  water 
part  of  the  river;  I  seldom  go  outside  my  garden,  excepting  to 
the  brink  of  the  river  or  up  the  valley.  Is  lunch  nearly  ready, 
Lyra?" 

He  was  not  inhospitable,  but  the  unwonted  presence  of  9 
stranger  and  the  necessity  of  talking  to  him  was  irksome  to 
the  recluse.  If  Dane  Armitage,  whoever  he  was,  would  be 
content  to  sit  hi  silence  and  not  want  to  be  talked  to,  he  might, 
go  far  as  Mr.  Chester  was  concerned,  sit  there  for  a  week.  * 

The  maid  brought  in  the  cold  beef  and  the  rest  of  the  frugal 
fare,  and  Lyra  took  her  place  at  the  head  of  the  table.  Dane 
Armitage  drew  up  his  chair  and  made  a  hearty  meal.  His 
manner  was  perfectly  free  from  even  the  shadow  of  shyness, 
and  he  talked  freely,  gradually  addressing  himself  almost  en- 
tirely to  Lyra,  as  he  saw  that  her  father  preferred  silence. 

Lyra  listened  as  one  listens  to  a  new  song,  and  looked  at 


ONCE    IK    A    LIFE.  21 

him  as  one  looks  at  something  quite  novel  and  hitherto  un- 
dreamed of. 

He  talked  of  the  strange  world  of  which  she  was  so  ignorant, 
and  talked  of  it  as  if  he  knew  it — and  a  very  great  deal  of  it 
— exceedingly  well.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he  had  been  every- 
where: fishing  in  Norway  and  Iceland — Iceland! — grizzly-bear 
hunting  in  the  Rockies,  pig-sticking  in  India,  elephant-shoot- 
ing in  Ceylon,  skating  in  Russia,  yachting  in  the  Mediter- 
ranean. As  she  listened,  her  chin  resting  in  her  hand,  her 
beautiful  face  with  its  intent,  thoughtful  expression  forming 
an  exquisite  picture,  her  eyes,  though  they  were  fixed  on  his 
face,  saw  it  not;  she  was  trying  to  realize  the  sort  of  life  he 
must  have  led.  It  seemed  to  her  like  that  of  a  fabled  hero,  in 
its  contrast  to  her  own  eventless  existence. 

She  woke  from  her  reverie  with  a  start  when  his  voice 
ceased,  and  rose,  still  rather  dreamily. 

"  Shall  we  go  into  the  garden?  It  is  warmer  than  in  here, 
and  you  must  still  be  wet." 

"  Not  a  bit/'  he  said  in  his  prompt,  almost  abrupt,  fashion. 
"  But  I  should  like  to  go  into  the  garden,  all  the  same." 

As  he  rose,  the  terrier,  which  had  been  lying  at  his  feet,  rose 
and  barked. 

"Oh,  I  quite  forgot  him!"  said  Lyra.  "lam  so  sorry! 
Poor  little  doggie!" 

She  cut  him  some  scraps  of  meat,  and  went  down  on  one 
knee  to  feed  him,  and  his  owner  stood  and  looked  down  at  the 
pair. 

They  reminded  him  of  a  colored  picture  in  one  of  the  Christ- 
mas annuals. 

"  Will  you  come,  father?"  Lyra  asked. 

But  Mr.  Chester  shook  his  head. 

"  Mr. — Mr.  Armitage  will  excuse  me,"  he  said.  "  I  like  to 
rest  after  my  meals  " — as  if  he  ever  did  anything  else  but  rest. 

Lyra  pulled  down  the  blind  to  exclude  the  sunlight,  and  be- 
fore they  had  left  the  room  Mr.  Chester  had  returned  to  his 
book. 

The  two,  followed  by  the  terrier,  went  down  the  path.  The 
garden  was  a  mass  of  roses  and  pinks  and  gayly  colored  an- 
nuals; and  Dane  Armitage  looked  round  admiringly,  one 
could  have  said  wistfully. 

"  "What  beautiful  flowers  you  have!"  he  said. 

"  They  grow  almost  wild  here,"  said  Lyra.  "  Griffith — 
that  is  our  man — says  that  they  nourish  in  the  salt  air  and  the 
wild  wind.  Look  at  that  rose!" 


22  0NCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

She  pointed  to  a  devoniensis  clambering  in  snowy  profusion 
over  the  porch. 

"  Wonderful!"  he  said.     "  May  I  have  one?" 

"  Oh,  not  that  one!"  she  said.  "  It  is  full  blown,  and  will 
fall  to  pieces  directly.  See!  there  is  a  better  one." 

And  she  reached  up  on  tiptoe  and  picked  a  partially  opened 
bud  and  gave  it  him. 

She  was  as  free  from  shyness  as  he;  but  his  freedom  was 
caused  by  his  knowledge  of  the  world,  hers  by  her  ignorance 
of  it. 

He  took  the  rose  and  held  it  for  a  moment,  then  put  it  into 
the  button-hole  of  his  coat. 

"  Here  is  the  warmest  place,"  she  said,  indicating  a  rustic 
seat  under  a  laurel  hedge,  which  formed  a  perfect  shelter  from 
the  winds.  "  Father  and  I  sit  here  in  March,  when  the  east 
•wind  blows,  and  even  then  it  is  like  summer." 

He  sat  down  and  stretched  his  legs  in  luxurious  comfort. 

"  Do  you  mind  my  smoking?" 

She  shook  her  head  "  Oh,  no,"  and  he  lighted  his  pipe, 
folded  his  arms  behind  his  head,  and  watched  her  with  blissfui 
content  as  she  moved  among  the  flowers. 

"  You  have  chosen  a  very  picturesque  spot  for  your  home, 
Miss  Chester/*  he  said,  breaking  the  silence. 

Lyra  looked  over  her  shoulders  at  him. 

"  Is  it  not  beautiful?" 

"  It's  a  pretty  county,  take  it  all  round,"  he  went  on. 
"  I've  been  tramping  about  Barnstaple,  up  the  Taw  Vale — > 
you  know  that,  of  course?" 

Lyra  shook  her  head. 

"  No;  I  have  never  been  there/'  she  said. 

"  No!     It  is  quite  close,  too,"  he  remarked. 

"  Is  it?"  she  said.  "  No,  I  have  never  been  there.  I  don't 
even  know  where  it  is.  I  have  never  been  any  further  than 
Barnstaple,  and  seldom  go  there." 

He  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth  and  looked  at  her  with 
frank  surprise. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  never  go  away  from  here,  from 
home?"  he  asked. 

She  smiled  faintly. 

"Yes." 

He  looked  round  musingly. 

"  You  must  find  it  dull  sometimes.  I  mean  that  it  is  sc 
quiet  here;  there  is  not  a  house  near.  I  didn't  see  one  as  I 
came  along." 


OKCE    LNT    A    LIFE.  23 

"  No;  thero  is  no  house  near  here  excepting  the  farm — 
Greely's  farm — and  that  is  across  the  river." 

He  pondered  over  this  for  a  moment  or  two. 

"  And  you  don't  find  it  dull?  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  you 
don't  look  dull." 

Lyra  laughed,  and  remained  silent  for  a  moment,  then  she 
said: 

' '  I  never  thought  of  it.  You  see,  I  am  used  to  it.  We 
came  here  when  I  was  quite  a  little  girl,  and  I  have  grorn  up 
in  the  place,  and  got  accustomed  to  seeing  no  one  but  our- 
selves." 

"  Don't  you  go  and  visit — stay  with — friends  sometimes?" 
he  asked,  not  in  a  tone  of  idle  curiosity,  but  respectfully 
enough. 

Lyra  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  I  don't  think  we  have  any  friends,"  she  replied,  con- 
tentedly. "  I  never  heard  father  speak  of  any/' 

"Good  Lord!"  he  murmured,  under  his  breath,  and  his 
handsome  eyes  softened  with  an  expression  of  something  like 
pity. 

"  Does  that  seem  so  strange?"  she  asked,  after  a  pause,  as 
if  she  had  understood  and  felt  the  look  in  his  eyes. 

"  Well,  rather,"  he  said,  frankly.  "  Most  people  go  about 
and  have  friends;  but,"  he  added,  "perhaps  you  are  all  the 
happier.  At  any  rate,  you  are  happy,  I  should  say,  Miss 
Chester?" 

She  thought  a  moment. 

"  Yes,  I  am  happy;  I  think  so." 

Until  this  moment  she  had  never  asked  herself  this  question. 

"  You  have  a  great  many  friends,  I  suppose?" 

As  she  spoke  she  came  and  sat  down  beside  him,  with  the 
bunch  of  flowers  she  had  gathered,  and  set  to  work  arranging 
them,  holding  them  a  little  away  from  her  and  regarding  them 
critically,  with  her  shapely  head  a  little  on  one  side. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  he  said.  Then  he  laughed  the  short, 
curt  laugh.  "  Now  you  ask  me  point-blank,  I  feel  rather 
doubtful.  Has  any  one  many  friends?  One,  two  perhaps, 
but  not  many.  Anyhow  I  know  a  lot  of  people.  My  father 
is  fond  of  company,  and  crams  the  house  twice  a  year.  I  was 
going  to  ask  you  if  you  knew  Starminster,  but  from  what  you 
have  said  I  suppose  you  don't." 

Lyra  shook  her  head. 

"  Like  Taw  Vale,  I  never  even  heard  of  it,"  she  said.  "  Is 
that  where  your  father  lives?"  she  added,  with  an  innocent 
interest. 


24  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

He  nodded. 

'  'Yes/' 

"  And  you  live  with  him?  Is  it  a  pretty  place — as  pretty 
as  this?" 

"  Not  nearly,"  he  said,  "  but  pretty  enough  in  its  way. 
No,  I  don't  live  with  him.  My  father  and  I " — he  paused  a 
moment,  then  laughed,  and  there  was  a  touch  of  bitterness  in 
the  laugh — "  my  father  and  I  don't  get  on  very  well.  It's 
my  fault,  of  course." 

"  Is  it?"  she  said,  still  intent  upon  her  flowers. 

He  changed  his  position  into  a  still  more  comfortable  one, 
and  took  two  or  three  more  pulls  at  his  pipe  before  answering. 

"  Yes,  I'm  afraid  it  is,"  he  said,  slowly.  "  My  father  is  a 
man  who  prides  himself  upon  having  always  done  his  duty." 

Lyra  looked  at  him  with  a  smile. 

"  And  haven't  you  always  done  yours?"  she  asked. 

He  looked  down,  then  laughed. 

"  I'm  afraid  not;  that's  the  trouble.  I'm  afraid  I'm  what's 
called  a  black  sheep.  I  don't  think  I'm  right  down  bad." 

Something  in  the  tone  of  the  apology  made  Lyra  laugh,  and 
he  laughed  in  harmony. 

"  Self-praise  is  no  recommendation,  is  it?"  he  went  on. 
"  But  this  is  how  it  is:  my  father  says  that  I'm  worse  than 
wicked;  I'm  idle  and  restless.  At  the  same  time,  I  won't  do 
what  he  wants  me  to  do,  and  I'm  always  doing  what  I  want  to 
do  myself.  Don't  fancy  I've  put  that  very  plainly,  some- 
how." 

"  Oh,  it  is  plain  enough,"  said  Lyra.  "  And  what  is  it  you 
are  always  doing?" 

He  laughed. 

"  Well,  I'm  always  wandering  about.  I  don't  seem  able  to 
stop  in  any  one  place  for  long  together.  I've  got  a  touch  of 
the  complaint  the  Wandering  Jew  suffered  from." 

She  looked  musingly  across  the  garden. 

"  Yes,  I  know;  I  ve  read  the  story.  He  was  never  able  to 
rest,  but  was  continually  tramping  on  through  the  ages." 

"  That's  my  case,"  he  said.  "  Not  that  I  look  very  much 
like  it  now;"  and  he  laughed  as  he  leaned  back  and  smoked. 

"  And  what  is  it  your  father  wants  you  to  do?"  she  asked, 
displaying  her  interest  with  the  frankness  of  one  to  whom  the 
conventionalities  are  unknown. 

"  Well,  for  one  thing,  he  wants  me  to  go  into  Parliament." 

Lyra  pondered  over  this  for  a  moment  or  two. 
'  Why  don't  you  go?"  she  asked.     "  Don't  you  like  it?" 

"I  certainly  do  not!"  he  said,  emphatically  and  abruptly. 


OtfCE    IN    A    LIFE.  25 

"  How  would  you  like  to  have  to  stand  for  a  place — to  have  to 
go  down  to  Mud-cum-sloper  and  curry  favor  with  the  Mud- 
cum-sloperites — to  jaw  the  hind  leg  off  a  donkey  at  political 
meetings,  and  make  a  fool  of  yourself  generally?" 

Lyra  laughed. 

"  I  shouldn't  like  that  at  all/'  she  said,  promptly. 
"  Would  you  have  to  do  all  that?'-' 

"  And  worse,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  disgust.  "  A  man  has 
to  eat  no  end  of  mud  to  get  into  Parliament  nowadays.  It 
was  all  very  well  in  my  father's  time,  when  you  just  planked 
down  a  certain  sum  of  money,  and  got  in  with  no  further 
trouble;  but  it  is  all  different  now." 

"  And  why  does  he  want  you  to  become  a  member  of  Par- 
liament, then,  if — if  it  is  so  degrading?" 

"  You  may  well  ask,"  he  responded.  "  That's  just  what  I 
have  said  to  him.  But  he  always  talks  of  duty — duty  to  my 
country — as  if  my  country,  or  any  other  country,  would  be 
any  the  better  if  I  spouted  in  Parliament !  But  my  father 
doesn't  see  that.  He  was  in  the  House  of  Commons  himself 
till  he  went  into  the  House  of  Lords." 

"  Why  did  he  go  into  the  House  of  Lords?"  asked  Lyra. 
"  Oh,  yes!  it  is  because  he  is  a  lord,  I  suppose?" 

Most  girls  would  have  been  startled,  would  have  felt  a  throb 
of  excitement  at  this  discovery  of  his  rank,  but  Lyra's  tone 
was  as  even  and  placid  as  before. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

HE  nodded  carelessly. 

"  Yes,  he  is  the  Earl  of  Starminster.  I  dare  say  you  have 
heard  of  him,  read  of  him  in  the  papers."  There  was  some- 
thing very  near  akin  to  annoyance,  just  stopping  short  of  con- 
tempt, in  his  voice.  "  He  is  always  on  the  stump." 

"  On  the  stump?"  echoed  Lyra. 

"  Yes;  spouting  at  public  meetings,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing,"  he  said,  impatiently.  "  He's  in  the  Cabinet'." 

"  The  Cabinet?"  she  murmured.  "  Oh,  yes!  I  know  what 
you  mean." 

"  Yes;  and  he  says  it's  his  duty  to  trot  up  and  down  the 
country  and  educate — that's  his  word,  not  mine — educate  the 
masses.  As  if  the  masses  wanted  educating !  What  they  want 
is  to  be  let  alone.  At  any  rate,  if  I  were  one  of  the  masses 
that's  what  I  should  want,  and  want  it  badly." 

Lyra  laughed  softly. 

"  It  all  sounds  so  strange  to  me!"  she  said. 


26  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.         ' 

"  I  dare  say,"  he  said,  almost  angrily,  as  if  indignation  were 
smoldering  within  him.  "  You  wonder — so  do  I — why  a  maa 
should  want  to,  like  to,  '  fuss  around  '  so.  That's  an  American 
phrase,  but  it  hits  off  what  I  mean  exactly;  that's  the  advan- 
tage of  most  of  the  American  slang.  I  couldn't  do  it,  and  I 
won't,  and,  to  come  back  to  the  ^beginning,  that's  the  trouble 
between  us.  I  hate  the  whole  business,  always  did  hate  it.  I'd 
rather  be  a  day-laborer  and  live  in  a  cottage  than  be  Earl  of 
Starminster  and  live  at  Starminster,  with  a  mob  of  people — 
political  nuisances — buzzing  round  me  and  worrying.  Why, 
the  house  isn't  fit  to  live  in  most  of  the  time!"  He  refilled 
his  pipe,  and  lighted  it  impatiently,  angrily.  "  But  I  beg 
your  pardon.  I've  been  cackling  about  myself  and  my  be- 
longings too  much.  You  must  be  bored  to  death." 

No,"  said  Lyra  slowly,  thoughtfully.  "  It  is  all  new  and 
strange  to  me,  and  interesting,  Mr.  Armitage."  She  paused, 
and  looked  at  him  with  a  frank  smile  upon  her  lovely  face. 
"  But  I  suppose  you  are  not  '  Mr.'  Aimitage.  "What  is  it  I 
ought  to  call  you?" 

He  laughed  curtly. 

"  Oh,  that's  good  enough/'  he  said.  "  Anyhow,  it  is  as 
good  as  Lord  Armitage,  as  I  am  usually  called." 

She  laughed  softly,  freely,  unaffectedly. 

"  I  ought  to  have  said,  '  My  lord,'  "  she  said. 

He  sat  bolt  upright  with  annoyance,  then  leaned  back. 

"  Good  heavens — no!"  he  said.  "  It  sounds  as  if  you  were 
a  deputation  or  something  of  that  kind.  Please  call  me  Armi- 
tage— or  Dane,  if  you  like." 

His  eyes  dropped  as  he  made  the  last  suggestion,  but  her 
own  rested  on  him  with  simple  candor. 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  she  said.  "  I  never 
spoke  to  a  lord  before  in  all  my  life,  and  probably  shall  not 
do  so  again." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  so!"  he  said,  almost  fervently.  "  I  hope  you 
won't  cut  me  altogether,  Miss  Chester." 

"  Cut  you?"  she  murmured,  perplexed  by  the  slang. 

"  I  mean  avoid  me — not  know  me,"  he  explained. 

Lyra  laughed  softly. 

"  Oh,  I  see!    I  dare  say  we  shall  never  meet  again,  Lord 
Armitage,"  she  said,  placidly.     "  But  if  we  should,  I  shall 
not  '  cut '  you.     Why  should  1?" 
.    "  Why,  indeed?"  he  said.     "  I  hope  you  won't" 

The  maid  came  out  of  the  house. 

"  Will  you  have  tea  out  here,  miss?"  she  said  iu  her  broad 
Devonshire.  "  Master's  asleep. " 


OtfCE    ITS    A    LIFE.  27 

"  Shall  we  have  it  here?"  asked  Lyra.  "  Yes;  but  pres- 
ently, Mary." 

He  knocked  out  his  pipe. 

"  I  am  staying  an  unconscionable  time/'  he  said,  slowly,  as 
he  dreaded  his  dismissal. 

"  Are  you?"  said  Lyra.  "  It  does  not  matter — at  least, 
to  me.  But  you  shall  go  now  if  you  like — if  you  do  not  care 
for  tea." 

"Oh',  yes,  I  do!"  he  said. 

He  loathed  it.  They  rose,  as  if  by  mutual  accord,  and  went 
down  the  path  to  the  river-bank. 

"  That's  a  beautiful  valley  up  there,"  he  said,  looking  to- 
ward it. 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know  how  beautiful!"  exclaimed  Lyra. 
"  It  is  a  little  paradise.  There  are  ferns  there  which  grow  in 
no  other  part  of  Devonshire.  You  can  get  the  English  maiden- 
hair, and  you  know  how  rare  that  is." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  don't,"  he  said.     "  What's  it  like?" 

"  Come,  and  I'll  show  you,"  she  said,  brightly. 

They  walked  side  by  side  up  the  valley.  The  sun  shone 
through  the  veil  of  leaves;  the  birds  sung  their  midsummer 
song  of  love  and  gladness;  the  whole  air  was  perfumed  by  the 
wild  flowers.  A  strange  sense  of  peace  and  rest  fell  upon  this 
restless  young  man — a  strange  sense  of  happiness  sprung  up  in 
the  heart  of  the  girl.  They  seemed  to  breathe  an  enchanted 
air;  the  flowers  took  to  themselves  a  new  and  more  glorious 
coloring;  the  sky  appeared  of  a  brighter,  happier  blue;  the 
song  of  the  birds  was  full  of  a  new  and  sweeter  music.  Now 
and  again  as  they  walked  on  and  talked  together  he  glanced  at 
the  girl  by  his  side,  and  her  fresh,  unstained  loveliness  wrought 
upon  him  like  a  spell. 

In  all  his  life — and  how  full  of  experience  his  life  had  been 
— he  had  never  met  any  one  like  her.  Never.  So  frank,  so 
free,  and  so  beautiful.  Living  here  in  this  lovely  solitude — 
the  loveliest  thing  in  it — without  friends,  outside  the  world, 
her  purity  and  innocence  as  yet  unsullied,  how  strangely  dif- 
ferent her  life  was  to  that  of  the  other  girls  he  knew;  and  yet 
she  was  so  self-possessed,  so  full  of  quiet,  maidenly  dignity, 
there  was  no  vulgar  shyness,  timidity,  with  half -frightened 
glances  and  awkward  movements,  such  as  make  the  unculti- 
vated and  underbred  so  *'  difficult  "  and  "  impossible."  She 
was  a  lady  from  the  crown  of  her  beautiful  head  to  the  soles 
of  her  feet. 

Now,  Dane  Viscount  Armitage  was  neither  a  particularly 
good  nor  charitable  young  man,  but  as  he  sauntered  up  the 


28  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

moss-pared  valley  beside  Lyra  Chester,  he  was  conscious  of  a 
very  strong  desire  to  change  this  life  of  hers,  to  show  her  some- 
thing of  the  world,  of  its  brightness,  gayety ,  and  pleasure.  It 
seemed  a  sin  and  a  crime,  a  waste  of  good  material,  as  Ruskin 
says,  that  one  so  eminently  fitted  to  shine  in  the  world,  in  so- 
ciety, should  be  doomed  to  waste  all  her  rare  gifts  of  beauty, 
of  voice,  of  face,  on  the  solitude  and  silence  that  brooded  over 
Taw  stream. 

Lyra  Chester's  life  was  no  concern  of  his — indeed,  there  was 
one  good  reason,  which  will  appear  presently,  why  it  should  be 
a  matter  of  perfect  indifference  to  him — but  Dane  Armitage, 
walking  up  this  enchanted  valley  beside  the  lovely  girl,  who 
seemed  as  if  she  were  its  natural  queen,  did  not  think  of  this 
reason. 

And  Lyra?  She  did  not  think  at  all.  At  her  age  and  in 
her  state  of  innocence  and  ignorance  of  the  world,  one  takes 
one's  happiness  as  the  young  birds  in  the  nest  take  their  food; 
without  'asking  questions  as  to  whence  it  comes  or  why.  If 
she  had  wondered  why  she  felt  so  happy  that  afternoon,  she 
would  have  decided  that  it  was  because  she  had  a  companion, 
some  one  with  whom  she  could  talk,  to  whom  she  could  listen; 
she  who  had  never  had  a  companion  of  her  own  age,  and 
talked  and  listened  so  seldom. 

While  the  terrier — Lyra  had  already  learned  to  call  him  by 
his  name,  Rags,  and  he  came  to  her  call  as  promptly  as  he  did 
to  his  master's — while  Rags  hunted  rabbits,  the  two  humans 
hunted  English  maiden-hair.  Lyra  found  a  root  at  last,  and 
pointed  out  its  beauties  to  Dane. 

"  It's  not  a  very  fine  one,"  she  said.  "  The  best  and  big- 
gest always  grow  up  in  the  crannies  of  the  rocks.  Why,  there 
is  one!"  and  she  pointed  to  a  root  above  her  head,  and  catch- 
ing at  a  branch,  swung  herself  up  lightly,  put  her  foot  in  a 
crevice,  and  reached  for  the  fern. 

Dane  reached  in  amazement  and  some  apprehension,  which 
was  almost  overborne  by  admiration,  so  full  of  ease  and  graCO 
was  her  action. 

"  Pray  take  care!"  he  said.  "  If  that  branch  were  to  give, 
or  your  foot  slip,  you  would  fall  and  break  something." 

She  looked  down  at  him  with  an  assured  smile. 

"  I  am  all  right,"  she  said.  "  I  am  used  to  clambering 
about.  This  is  nothing  to  the  rocky  hills  further  up  the  v»l- 
ley." 

"  Give  me  the  fern.     Let  me  hold  your  hand,"  he  said. 

Obediently  she  tried  to  do  both,  and,  as  might  have  been  ex- 


OKCE    IN    A    LIFE.  29 

pected,  lost  her  balance;  her  foot  slipped,  and  she  would  have 
fallen  if  he  had  not  caught  her. 

For  a  moment  he  held  her  in  his  arms — for  a  moment  only; 
but  in  that  short  space  of  time  he  was  thrillingly  conscious  of 
her  breath  upon  his  cheek,  the  beating  of  her  heart  against 
his  side. 

She  was  out  of  his  arms  in  an  instant,  and  though  he  felt  a 
queer  pulsation  in  his  veins  that  sent  the  blood  to  his  face,  she 
stood  quite  calm,  unruffled,  and  unconscious. 

"  Is  it  all  right?"  she  asked. 

He  looked  at  her  as  if  he  were  rather  dazed,  as  he  was  in- 
deed. 

"  The  fern,  I  mean?  I  tried  to  get  as  much  of  the  root  as 
I  could." 

"  Oh — yes,  yes;  it  is  all  right,'*  he  said,  examining  the  speci- 
men with  more  attention  than  it  required. 

"  If  you  keep  it  in  water  till  you  plant  it,  it  will  live,"  she 
said. 

He  plucked  a  large  fern-leaf  and  wrapped  the  maiden-hair 
in  it  carefully. 

"I'll  take  every  care  of  it,"  he  said,  in  rather  a  low  voice; 
his  heart  was  still  beating  unsteadily.  "  And  I'll  plant  it  my- 
self when  I  get  to  Starminster." 

"  You  must  put  it  in  a  damp  place,  under  the  shadow  of 
some  trees.  They  die  in  too  much  sunlight." 

He  stowed  the  fern  away  in  the  under  breast-pocket  of  his 
coat,  and  they  walked  on.  Presently  they  came  out  of  the 
little  wood.  The  valley  had  broadened  and  the  stream  was 
here  clear  of  bushes  and  undergrowth.  Dane  uttered  an  ex- 
clamation of  satisfaction. 

"  There  ought  to  be  fish  here,"  he  said. 

"  Fish!"  laughed  Lyra.     "  It  is  full  of  fish— trout." 

"  ~No.  But  of  course  it  must  be;  every  stream  in  Devon- 
shire is.  I  wish  I  had  a  rod!  We  could  fill  a  basket  here. 
Don't  you  fish?" 

She  opened  her  eyes  upon  him. 

"  No.     Do  ladies  fish?" 

"  Why,  yes,"  he  replied,  "  no  end  of  them.  It  is  a  lady's 
sport.  If  I  had  a  rod  I  could  teach  you  in  half  an  hour  or 
so."  Like  all  anglers,  he  was  enthusiastic.  "  Ladies,  as  a 
rule,  throw  a  better  fly  than  men;  their  hands  are  lighter  and 
their  sight  quicker.  I  taught  a  cousin  of  mine  " — he  hesitated, 
and  stopped  as  if  he  had  said  more  than  he  intended;  but  as 
Lyra  looked  expectantly  at  him  he  went  on,  but  in  a  casual 


30  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

way — "  and  she  got  on  very  well,  but  she  dropped  it  like  a  hot 
coal  after  the  first  time." 

"  She  got  tired  of  it?" 

"  No,  oh,  no!  she  was  awfully  fetched  by  it,  but  it  suddenly 
struck  her  that  it  was  cruel  and  wicked,  and  she  spent  the  res/" 
of  the  morning  jawing — I  beg  your  pardon — lecturing  me 
upon  its  sinfulness." 

Lyra  gazed  at  him  thoughtfully. 

"  You  see,  she's  one  of  the  very  good  sort,"  he  explained, 
but  in  an  uninterested  way,  as  if  he  did  not  care  for  the  sub- 
ject. "  Thinks  it  wicked  to  enjoy  one's  self  in  any  way;  one 
of  that  kind  of  persons  who  are  always  asking  themselves  if 
they're  not  committing  a  mortal  sin  in  daring  to  eat  their 
breakfast  or  take  a  walk." 

"  I  never  heard  of  any  one  like  that,"  said  Lyra,  medi- 
tatively. 

"  You're  precious  lucky,  then,"  he  said,  rather  ruefully. 
"  They're  uncomfortable  sort  of  people,  and  to  be  carefully 
avoided,  not  that  Theodosia  is  a  bad  sort  in  other  ways,"  he 
added,  almost  to  himself. 

"  Theodosia!    Isn't  that  a  strange  name?"  she  said. 

He  laughed. 

"  Yes;  we  rather  go  in  for  peculiar  names  in  our  family," 
he  said.  "  But  it  fits  her  like  a  glove.  How  far  does  this 
stream  run  clear  of  bushes  like  this?"  he  asked,  changing  the 
subject  abruptly. 

Oh,  it  winds  in  and  out  among  the  rocks  for  a  couple  of 
miles,"  she  said.  "  But  I  am  afraid : ' — and  she  sighed 
faintly — "  that  we  must  go  back.  Tea  will  be  ready,  and  my 
father  may  want  me." 

They  strolled  back  rather  silently,  Lyra  stopping  to  gather 
flowers  now  and  again,  Dane  Armitage  smoking  in  a  thought- 
ful way. 

When  they  reached  the  cottage,  they  found  the  tea  ready  on 
the  rustic  table  and  Mr.  Chester  seated,  waiting.  He  looked 
up  vacantly  at  Dane  Armitage,  as  if  he  had  not  seen  him  be- 
fore, then  remembered,  and  nodded. 

Lyra  poured  out  the  tea,  and  Dane  Armitage  drank  to  the 
bitter  dregs  the  cup  which  he  loathed;  then,  with  a  strange  re- 
luctance, prepared  to  take  his  departure. 

"  I  have  to  thank  you  and  Miss  Chester  for  a  very  pleasant 
afternoon,  sir,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Chester  blinked  at  liim,  and  murmured  the  conventional 
response : 

"  Very  pleased  to  see  you — any  time!" 


ONCE    IK    A    LIFE.  31 

But  absent-minded  as  was  the  tone  in  which  the  invitation 
was  given,  Dane  Armitage  seemed  to  welcome  it. 

"  Thank  you  very  much/'  he  said,  quite  gratefully.  Then 
as  he  held  Lyra's  small,  soft  hand,  he  said  in  a  low  voice: 
"  Do  you  think  you  would  consider  fly-fishing  very  wicked?" 

She  had  risen  and  was  walking  by  his  side  to  the  gate,  and 
she  looked  up  at  him  with  the  frank  smile  in  her  eyes. 

"No,  I  don't  think  so." 

"  Well,  you  can't  very  well  tell  ti'.l  you  try,  can  you?"  he 
said.  "  If  you'll  let  me,  I'll  bring  a  rod  to-morrow — yes,  to- 
morrow morning — and  give  you  a  lesson." 

The  smile  grew  brighter,  and  her  evident,  quite  uncon- 
cealed pleasure  in  the  proposal  smote  him. 

"  Will  you?  That  will  be  very  kind  of  you!  Yes,  I  should 
like  it.  But  won't  it  be  giving  you  too  much  trouble?  I 
shall  be  very  awkward  and  clumsy." 

"  No,  it  won't  be  any  trouble,  and  I'm  sure  you  will  pick  it 
up  easily  enough,"  he  said,  trying  to  speak  casually  and  al- 
most indifferently  to  hide  his  intense  satisfaction — shall  it  be 
written,  delight?  "  Good-bye,  then — till  to-morrow." 

Lyra  stood  at  the  gate,  looking  after  him;  then  she  went 
slowly  back  to  the  table. 

Had  the  sun  gone  behind  a  cloud?  Had  a  sudden  wind 
arisen  to  chill  the  morning?  Somehow,  as  he  was  lost  to  sight, 
something  of  the  brightness  and  the  glad  warmth  of  the  day 
seemed  to  have  vanished  with  him. 

She  sat  down  with  her  hands  in  her  lap,  a  dreamy,  ques- 
tioning look  in  her  eyes;  and  her  father's  voice  made  her  start. 

"  Did  you  get  that  paper,  Lyra?"  he  asked. 

"  The  paper?  ^  Oh,  yes!  But  what  did  I  do  with  it?  1 
must  have  left  it  in  the  boat.  One  moment,  father." 

She  lan  down  to  the  boat  and  found  it  lying  under  the  seat. 
— it  wais  rather  wet — and  ran  up  with  it. 

"  There  it  is,"  she  said,  breathlessly.  ';  It  got  wet  when  I 
pulled  him — I  mean  Lord  Armitage — out  of  the  water." 

'  He  took  the  paper  and  opened  it. 

"I've  left  my  spectacles  in  the  parlor,"  he  said.  She  rose 
with  the  promptitude  of  one  accustomed  to  instant  obedience, 
and  went  into  the  house,  but  could  not  find  the  spectacles. 
When  she  came  out  again  her  father  had  them  on  and  was 
reading  the  paper.  It  was  clutched  tightly  in  his  hands  and 
hid  his  face,  but  when  she  said: 

"  Why,  you  have  them  after  all,"  he  lowered  the  paper  with 
a  spasmodic  kind  of  motion,  and  she  saw  that  his  thin  face 
was  deathly  white.  "  Oh,  father!  what  is  it — what  is  the 


32  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

matter?  Are  you  ill?"  she  asked,  going  to  him  and  putting 
her  arm  round  him. 

He  put  up  his  hand.  She  felt  it  tremble,  and  put  her  arm 
from  him. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said  huskily,  shakily.  "  It  is  nothing.  I — 
I  think  the  air  has  got  colder;  I'll  go  in." 

"Let  me  help  you,. father,"  she  said  anxiously,  lovingly; 
but  he  put  out  his  hand  as  if  to  ward  her  off. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  generously,  "  I  am  quite  able  to  walk 
by  myself.  I  tell  you  it  is  nothing — I  am  all  right;"  and  he 
went  into  the  house. 

Meanwhile,  Armitage  tramped  back  to  Barnstaple.  He 
walked  fast;  he  smoked  furiously;  there  was  a  troubled  frown 
upon  his  brow;  all  of  which  are,  in  men,  signs  of  the  working 
of  a  guilty  conscience.  Rags  knew  this  well  enough,  and 
trotted  demurely,  gravely  at  his  master's  heels,  instead  of 
scampering  after  rabbits  and  barking  furiously,  as  was  his 
wont. 

"  Confound  it!"  murmured  Dane.  "  It  won't  do — no,  it 
won't  do.  I'll  go  off  by  the  night  train — if  there  is  a  night 
train."  He  filled  his  pipe  again.  "  How  beautiful  she  is, 
and  how — how — "  If  he  had  been  a  poet  or  a  woman  he  would 
have  said  "  sweet;"  but  he  couldn't  find  a  word  to  please  him. 
"  I  wish  to  Heaven  I'd  taken  myself  off  when  I  got  out  of  the 
boat;  and  I've  promised  to  go  again  to-morrow.  How  pleased 
she  looked  when  I  told  her  I  was  coming.  Poor  girl !  Lead- 
ing such  a  life,  it  must  have  seemed  something  to  look  for- 
ward to.  I  can  see  her  face  now.  Yes,  I'll  go  off  at  once. 
Another  day  by  her  side  and — and  I  shouldn't  be  able  to  go 
at  all." 

He  sighed,  and  strode  on  till  he  came  to  the  station. 

"  Any  train  leave  here  for  London  to-night?"  he  asked. 

"  No,  sir.     Last  London  train  just  gone." 

Dane  Armitage  swore;  but  a  look  of  relief,  of  guilty  relief, 
came  into  his  face.  He  walked  into  4he  town  and  stopped  in 
front  of  the  hotel;  but  instead  of  going  in,  he  went  along  up 
the  High  Street  and  entered  a  fishing-tackle  shop. 

"  Got  any  trout  rods?"  he  asked. 

The  man  remarked  that  he  had  the  best — the  very  best — 
assortment  in  all  the  country. 

"  I  want  a  light  one — a  very  light  one — for  a  lady,"  Dane 
said. 

The  man  showed  him  one — an  expensive,  nickel-mounted 
affair  with  all  the  latest  improvements. 

"  Is  that  the  best  you've  got?"  demanded  Dane,  in  a  dis- 


ONCE'  IBT    A    LIFE.  33 

satisfied  voice.  He  would  not  have  considered  one  mounted 
with  gold  too  good. 

The  man  stared. 

"  It's  the  very  best  split  cane,  sir — " 

"  Oh,  all  right/'  said  Dane,  cutting  him  short.  He  paid 
for  the  things,  and  marched  down  the  street  with  it  and  into 
the  hotel. 

As  he  entered  his  private  sitting-room,  with  the  same  rest- 
less and  uneasy  expression  in  his  eyes,  it  made  them  rather 
fierce.  A  gentleman  half  rose  from  the  usual  hotel  sofa,  and 
in  soft  and  lisping  accents  greeted  him  with: 

"  How  do  you  do,  Dane?" 

He  was  a  young  man,  very  fair — insipidly  fair — with  almost 
colorless  hair  and  steely  blue  eyes.  His  hair  was  thin  and 
beautifully  parted.  He  was  clean  shaven,  and  he  looked  the 

Sicture  of  fashionable  and  fastidious  neatness.  Was  it  Sydney 
niith  who  said  that  he  did  not  like  a  man  because  he  was  so 
disgustingly  neat?  If  so,  Sydney  Smith  would  not  have  liked 
this  young  man.  There  was  something — well,  exasperatingly 
effeminate  in  the  clean-shaven  face,  the  dress,  the  long  white 
hands,  the  voice,  and  something  equally  exasperating  in  the 
languid  air  of  self-satisfaction  and  self-conceit  which  clothed 
him  as  if  in  a  garment. 

Dane  Armitage  stared  at  this  specimen  of  our  ultra-civiliza- 
tion in  silence  for  a  moment,  then,  by  way  of  greeting,  re- 
marked, none  too  politely: 

"  What  the  devil  brings  you  here,  Chandos?" 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  WHAT  the  devil  brings  you  here,  Chandos?"  said  Dane 
Armitage,  not  very  politely,  considering  that  Chandos  Armi- 
tage was  his  cousin.  ., 

The  Honorable  Mr.  Chandos  smiled  sweetly — he  was  famous 
for  his  smile,  among  other  things  which  shall  be  mentioned 
presently. 

"  My  dear  Dane,  what  a  greeting!  Any  one  who  did  not 
know  you  as  well  as  I  do,  would  imagine  that  yoii  were  not 
glad  to  see  me." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right!"  said  Dane  the  brusque.  "But, 
after  all,  what  has  brought  you  here?" 

Chandos  Armitage  shrugged  his  shoulders  remonstratingly. 

"  This  is  a  free  country,  my  dear  Dane,  and  we  are  all  free 
men.  I  am  here  in  the  course  of  my  wanderings." 


34  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

"  Wanderings!"  growled  Dane,  rather  impatiently,  under 
his  breath. 

"  Yes;  wanderings  in  search  of  the  Beautiful  and  the  True." 
The  Honorable  Chandos  Armitage  was  a  poet;  that  is  to  say, 
he  wrote  feeble  verses  which  were  feeble  imitations  of  real 
poets:  Tennyson,  Browning,  Swinburne.  These  were  very 
much  admired  by  his  female  acquaintances  and  himself — 
especially  by  himself. 

He  not  only  wrote  verses,  but  he  set  them  to  music — also  a 
feeble  copy  of  well-known  composers,  or  more  often  long-for- 
gotten musicians,  for  Chandos  Armitage  was  not  without 
guile.  And  he  sung  these  "  Songs  of  Exile  " — though  why  he 
called  himself  an  exile  no  one  knew — with  his  head  thrown 
well  back,  and  his  eyes  fixed  with  an  emotional  expression  on 
the  ceiling;  and  the  ladies — some  of  them — declared  his  songs 
and  him  to  be  too,  just  too  sweet  and  lovely. 

He  also  painted  a  little — feeble  little  sketches  without  life  or 
backbone;  dabs  of  color — generally  indigo — which  he  called 
impressions,  and  were  intended  to  mean  Heaven  knows  what. 
He  also  played  the  guitar  in  a  tinkling  fashion,  and  carved 
Swiss  girls  and  chamois  in  wood.  In  fact,  he  was  a  very  ac- 
complished gentleman,  and  considered  to  be  an  ornament  to 
his  family  in  particular,  and  a  sweet  boon  to  mankind  in  gen- 
eral. It  is  true  that  not  one  of  his  accomplishments  would 
have  earned  him  a  crust  of  bread  if  he  had  been  starving;  but 
this  did  not  matter,  for,  fortunately  for  him,  he  possessed  a 
small  but  sufficient  income;  just  enough  to  allow  him  to  grat- 
ify his  numerous  tastes,  to  live  in  luxurious  chambers,  ride  in 
hansoms,  belong  to  two  or  three  first-class  clubs,  dress  like — 
well,  like  Mr.  Chandos  Armitage — and  travel  about  "  in  search 
of  the  Beautiful  and  the  True." 

But  for  Dane  Armitage  he  would  have  been  a  very  great 
and  a  very  rich  man,  for  Dane,  and  Dane  only,  stood  between 
Mr.  Chandos  and  the  earldom  of  Starminster.  If  Dane  should 
chance  to  die,  or  fail  to  marry,  Chandos  would  be  the  earl. 

But  though  Chandos  would  not  have  been  sorry  if  his  cousin 
should  be  removed  to  the  land  of  Rest,  he,  Chandos,  was  not 
likely  to  stab  him  in  the  back  or  poison  him?  for  Chandos 
Armitage  was  not  that  kind  of  villain. 

Indeed,  he  was  scarcely  a  villain  at  all,  in  the  ordinary  ac- 
ceptation of  the  term. 

He  was  vain  as  a  peacock,  weak  as  water,  and  selfish  as — as 
A  man,  and  only  a  man,  can  be.  All  his  little  verses  were 
about  love,  and  breathed  tenderness  and  sentiment,  full  of 
"  hearts  "  and  "  darts,"  "  loves  "  and  "  doves,"  parting  and 


IN    A    LIPE.  35 

despair,  constancy  and  the  domestic  affections;  but,  to  put  the 
matter  bluntly,  Mr.  Chandos  Armitage,  though  he  wailed  so 
tenderly,  was  as  heartless  as  a  doll — he  was  all  hay  and  saw- 
dust inside. 

He  would  have  sacrified  his  nearest  relation  or  his  dearest 
friend  if  by  such  sacrifice  he  could  have  gratified  the  smallest 
desire,  the  most  transient  caprice. 

Dane  had  a  very  strong  inkling  of  this  disposition  of  this 
cousin  of  his,  had  a  lively  contempt  for  his  "poems"  and 
protestations  of  sentiment,  and,  I  am  afraid,  despised  him  and 
all  his  works. 

Dane  liked  a  man  who  could  ride,  hunt,  fish,  swim — a  man, 
in  short — and,  in  his  opinion,  the  elegant,  dainty,  warbling 
Chandos  was  only  a  feeble  imitation  of  a  man.  He  irritated 
Dane,  made  him  lose  his  temper  and  swear,  and  all  the  more 
readily  and  furiously  because  Mr.  Chandos  Armitage  never 
lost  his  temper  and  rarely,  if  erer,  swore. 

"  You  know  I  am  at  work  at  my  new  volume  of  poems," 
went  on  Chandos,  lying  back,  with  his  head  gracefully  resting 
on  his  arm,  his  white  hand  hanging  down — "  lolloping/' 
Dane  would  have  said.  "  They're  of  a  rustic,  rural  character 
this  time,  and  I  am  studying  from  the  life.  I  like  to  get  all 
my  '  properties'  correctly;  to  see  my  farmers  and  dairy-maids 
in  the  flesh,  to  inhale  the  perfume  of  the  hay  and  the  orchards, 
hear  the  birds  sing,  and — and — " 

"  The  pigs  grunt,"  put  in  Dane,  with  the  intention  of  nip- 
ping Chandos's  sentimentalizing  in  the  bud. 

"  Er — yes,  quite  so,"  smiled  Chandos,  with  a  little  sniff  of 
disgust.  "  Quite  so,  though  that  is  scarcely  poetical,  my  dear 
Dane." 

"  Well,  pigs  do  grunt,  they  don't  sing,"  said  Dane,  put- 
ting the  fishing-rod  in  the  corner  and  "  tidying  "  the  room 
generally. 

"  All  the  voices  of  Nature  are  harmonious  to  the  real  poet," 
remarked  Chandos,  sweetly. 

"  I  dare  say.  But  what  made  you  come  here  to  Barnstaple?" 

Chandos  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Mere  whim,  chance,  caprice,"  he  said,  languidly.  "I 
have  heard  of  its  beauties,  its  downy  hills  and  ferny  vales,  its 
silver  streams — " 

"  And  clotted  creams,"  broks  in  Dane,  with  laughing  im- 
patience. ' '  Why  the  deuce  do  you  always  talk  in  such  a  high- 
falutin  style,  Chandos?  You're  not  at  a  tea-party,  surrounded 
by  a  lot  of  women  who  believe  in  you,  and  think  every  word 
you  utter  an — an  oracle.  You  came  here  because  you  did, 


36  OKCE    IHT    A    LIFE. 

eh?  All  right;  now  then,  to  business.  You'll  stop  to  dinner? 
You're  stopping  here  at  this  hotel,  I  suppose?" 

"  Yes/'  replied  Chandos.     "  For  to-night— 

"  '  For  one  night  only,'  as  they  say  in  the  bills,"  said  Dane, 
who  somehow  or  other  never  could  resist  the  desire  to  chaff 
his  exquisite  relative. 

"  Yes;  I  want  to  see  the  sun  set  from  the  bridge,  and  the 
river  at  the  bottom  of  the  town.  I  think  I  can  write  a  poem 
on  that  scene.  I  have  got  the  first  lines. " 

He  raised  himself  slightly,  fixed  his  washed-out  blue  eyes  on 
the  opposite  wall,  and  murmured: 

"  I  stood  by  the  stream  at  midnight, 
When  all  was  dark  and  weird — " 

"  For  I'd  drunk  too  much  in  the  morning,  and  my  eyes 
were  red  and  bleared/'  struck  in  Dane.  "  I've  heard  some- 
thing like  that  before.  Why,  man,  it's  Longfellow's  '  Bridge  ' 
slightly  altered;  that  is  to  say,  murdered." 

A  faint,  resentful  red  came  into  Chandos's  face,  and  his  eyes 
grew  sullen  and  angry. 

"  I  fear  you  have  no  soul  for  poetry,  my  poor  Dane,"  he 
said. 

"  'Fraid  I  haven't,"  assented  Dane,  with  Philistine  cheer- 
fulness. "  You  see,  you've  got  it  all,  Chandos;  you've 
mopped  up  all  there  was  in  the  family,  and  just  now  I'm  too 
hungry  for  anything  less  substantial  than  food." 

He  rang  the  bell.  Immediately  a  well-dressed,  respectable- 
looking  waiter  appeared. 

"  Hurry  up  the  dinner,  waiter;  and  look  here,  this  gentle- 
man, Mr.  Armitage,  will  dine  with  me." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  waiter. 

Chandos  raised  himself  again  with  a  feeble  interest. 

"  What  have  you  ordered,  Dane?  They  will  be  sure  to  give 
you  soles;  people  in  these  sort  of  places  always  do,"  he  re- 
marked, plaintively.  "  Waiter,  please  see  that  they  are  boiled, 
not  fried,  unless  Lord  Armitage  has  specially  ordered  them 

80." 

"Oh!  have  'em  as  you  like,"  said  Dane,  indifferently. 

The  waiter  stared,  looked  surprised,  and  became  humbly 
respectful  in  a  moment .  Dane  had  not  acquainted  them  with 
his  rank. 

"  Yes,  sir — yes,  my  lord,"  he  said.     "  Certainly — boiled." 

"  And,"  murmured  Chandos,  "  if  you  give  us  a  fowl — 
which  you  are  sure  to  do — please,  please  do  net  forget  the 
bread-sauce." 


OHCE    IK    A    LIFE.  3T 

"No,  sir.     Certainly  not,  sir." 

"  For  a  poet,  yon  are  mighty  particular,  Chandos,"  he  re- 
marked. J  had  an  idea  you  high-souled  gentry  didn't  care 
what  you  eat  or  drank." 

Chandos  sighed  plaintively. 

"  I  am  not  strong,  and  I  am  obliged  to  be  particularly  care- 
ful. I  have  not,  like  you,  the  digestion  of  an  ox,  Dane.  And, 
by  the  way,  you  mentioned  drink.  Do  you  think  they  have 
some  decent — some  really  decent  Hock?  If  not,  perhaps  we'd 
better  have  champagne. ' ' 

"  I  should  say  they  don't  know  what  Hock  is,  or  wouldn't 
even  know  how  to  spell  it,"  responded  Dane.  "  I'll  order 
gome  champagne." 

"  A-h!  I  think  I'll  go  and  dress,"  said  the  poet;  and  he 
rose  slowly,  as  if  to  soft  music. 

"  Dress?"  said  Dane,  eying  him  with  a  smile.  "  Why,  you 
look  as  if  you  had  come  out  of  a  bandbox  already.  Don't 
trouble  to  put  on  dress-clothes  for  me." 

"No?  You  mean  it  really?  Very  well;  but  I  never  feel 
as  if  I  could  enjoy  my  dinner  in  morning  attire." 

"  Oh!  you'll  enjoy  your  dinner  well  enough,  unless  you've 
changed  pretty  considerably  since  I  saw  you  last,"  said  Dane, 
laughing  his  curt  laugh.  "  Look  sharp;  you've  only  got  a 
quarter  of  an  hour." 

The  Honorable  Chandos  got  up  slowly,  and  gracefully  left 
the  room. 

Dane  went  up  to  wash  his  hands,  with  the  feeling  of  impa- 
tient irritation  which  Mr.  Chandos  never  failed  to  arouse 
strong  upon  him. 

Dane  was  as  hospitable  as  an  Arab;  would  have  shared  his 
last  crust  with  a  beggar — better  than  that,  have  given  them 
his  last  cigar — but  he  was  not  glad  to  see  his  cousin  this  even- 
ing. 

He  wanted  to  be  alone,  to  think  over  what  had  happened  on 
the  river  Taw  that  day;  to  think — yes,  the  truth  must  be  told 
— of  Lyra  Chester. 

He  paused  several  times  in  the  process  of  washing  himself, 
with  the  towel  in  his  hand,  to  recall  some  expression  of  her 
face,  some  inflection  of  her  musical  voice.  He  thought  of 
her  living  there  at  the  ruined  mill,  growing  up  in  that  soli- 
tude, with  no  girl,  no  woman  friend,  and  his  heart  ached  with 
a  yearning  kind  of  pity  which  only  intensified  his  interest  in 
her. 

"  I  shall  see  her  to-morrow,"  he  thought,  as  he  brushed  his 
hair;  and  the  thought  was  inexpressibly  pleasant  and  soothing; 


38  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE* 

scarcely  soothing,  though,  for  conscience — with  a  cnpihu  0— 
cut  in  and  worried  him  with '  that  still  voice  which  we  all 
spend  our  lives  in  trying  to  stifle. 

When  he  went  down  he  found  his  cousin  awaiting  him. 
Chandos  had  changed  his  morning  attire  for  a  suit  of  dark 
clothes  which  was  a  kind  of  compromise  with  evening-dress. 
He  looked  beautiful,  and  he  smelled  of  lavender  water. 

The  waiter  served  the  dinner.  It  was  a  good  plain  meal, 
well  cooked,  and,  strange  to  relate,  hot,  not  lukewarm. 

Dane  was  hungry,  and  eat  as  if  he  enjoyed  it.  Chandos 
was  hungry  also,  but  eat  as  if  he  were  discharging  a  duty  to 
mankind.  He  sent  down  for  fresh  sauce,  and  sighed  plaint- 
ively because  the  cutlets  were  served  without  paper  frills. 

"  The  champagne's  all  right,''  said  Dane,  taking  a  draught 
with  the  air  of  a  man  not  ashamed  to  be  thirsty. 

"  Yes/'  said  Chandos.  "  It  is  not  '80,  but  we  must  not  be 
too  exigent  in  these  barbaric  regions."  He  had  drunk  by  far 
the  best  part  of  the  bottle,  by  the  way.  "  As  I  was  saying  at 
Castle  Towers  the  other  day,  an  Englishman  only  understands 
one  liquid,  and  that  is — beer.  Unfortunately,  I  can  not 
drink  beer." 

"  Thank  goodness  I  can — lots  of  it!"  said  Dane.  "  And  so 
you've  been  to  Castle  Towers,  Chandos?  Try  these  cigars." 

"  Thanks!  Tour  cigars  are  too  strong  for  me;  I  tried  one 
of  them  once."  He  shuddered.  "  Yes,  I  was  at  Castle  Tow- 
ers last  week." 

"  Yes?    And  how  are  they  all?    How  is  Theodosia?" 

As  he  put  the  question,  Dane  winced  inwardly.  Conscience 
pricked  him. 

Chandos  got  up,  and  murmuring,  "  Do  you  mind?"  ex- 
tended himself  on  the  sofa. 

'*  Not  a  bit.  Sit,  lie  where  you  like.  Theodosia  seemed  in 
the  best  of  health,  and  as  sweet  as  usual." 

"Oh!  was  she  sweet?"  said  Dane,  rather  absently. 

"  Yes,"  murmured  Chandos,  with  half -closed  lips,  but 
watching  his  cousin,  the  viscount,  nevertheless.  "  \'es;  she 
is  a  rare  plant,  is  dear  Theodosia." 

Dane  put  his  foot  upon  a  chair  and  leaned  back  and  laughed. 

"  That  sounds  as  if  she  were  a  kind  of  trick,  deception,"  he 
said.  "  You've  the  oddest  way  of  expressing  yourself,  Chan- 
dos." 

"  Yes?  What  I  meant  was  that  dear  Theodosia  is  the  very 
epitome  of  those  chaste  and  devout  virtues  which — which  are 
woman's  rarest  and  sweetest  charms.  You  are  an  extremely 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  39 

fortunate  man,  Dane,  to  be  betrothed  to  such  an  altogether 
adorable  woman." 

"  Thanks.  Yes,,  I  suppose  I  am.  And  what  was  she  doing? 
Usual  kind  of  thing,  I  suppose;"  and  he  suppressed  a  sigh 
that  was  remarkably  like  an  impatient  one. 

"  Theodosia  is  engaged  in  her  usual  good  works/'  replied 
Chandos.  "  I  found  her  surrounded  by  clergymen  of  various 
denominations.  She  was  just  starting  a  society  for  the  assist- 
ance of  fallen  women.  I  was  very  glad — humbly  glad — to  be 
able  to  contribute  my  mite." 

"Oh!"  said  Dane,  rather  queerly. 

He  was  silent  a  moment;  then  he  said,  looking  hard  at  his 
cigar : 

"  By  the  way,  Chandos,  I  had  rather  a  strange  experience 
the  other  evening." 

"Y-es?"  drawled  Mr.  Chandos,  sipping  his  champagne, 
with  half -closed  eyes. 

"  Yes.  My  man  came  into  my  room  and  said  a  woman 
wanted  to  see  me." 

Mr.  Chandos  shook  his  head  sadly,  and  blew  out  a  cloud  of 
cigarette  smoke  with  luxuriously  easeful  reproach. 

"  My  dear  Dane,  I  trust  you  did  not  see  her.  No  woman 
with  proper  self-respect  would  visit  a  man  in  his  chambers." 

"  Well,  I  did  see  her,"  said  Dane,  slowly,  and  with  still 
averted  eyes.  "  I  didn't  know  who  she  was  or  what  she 
wanted,  and — well,  I  suppose  I  was  curious.  Walford  showed 
in  a  girl — a  young  girl." 

"  My  dear  Dane,"  murmured  the  poet,  with  gentle  reproach 
— Dane  glanced  at  him  with  the  same  kind  of  queerness — "  one 
should  never  lay  one's  self  open  to  temptation,  or  give  even 
the  excuse  for  scandal.  A  young  girl  visit  your  chambers!  • 
What  would  be  thought  if  it  were  known?  And  I  suppose 
your  man  Walford,  like  the  rest  of  them,  is  not  to  be  trusted. 
My  dear  Dane,  you  should  have  more  consideration  for  your 
reputation." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Dane,  in  a  dry  voice.  "  As  for  Walford, 
I  have  had  him  for  many  years — ever  since  I  left  college — and 
he  would  as  soon  think  of  talking  of  my  visitors,  male  or  fe- 
male, as — you  would." 

"  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it!"  rejoined  Chandos,  in  a  tone 
that  implied  that  his  distrust  of  Walford  was  as  strong  as  ever. 
"  But  the  girl,  Dane?  What  did  she  want?"  he  inquired,  with 
a  curiosity  remarkable  in  so  virtuous  and  superior  a  young 
man. 

"  Well,"  said  Dane,  slowly,   "  she  seemed  surprised  and 


40  .       OKCE    IS    A    LIFET 

taken  aback  when  she  got  into  the  room  and  saw  me,  and 
when  I  rose  and  offered  a  chair,  she  blushed  for  a  moment, 
then  went  white,  and  faltered  out  that  there  must  be  some 
mistake." 

Mr.  Chandos  smiled  in  a  superior  way. 

"  The  usual  excuse!  My  dear  Dane,  she  was  acting;  it  was 
all  theatre,  as  the  French  say.  And  what  was  her  business?'7 

"  That's  what  I  asked  her,"  said  Dane.  "  She  was  very 
overwhelmed  and  confused,  and  for  a  time  I  couldn't  make 
out  what  was  amiss.  But  it  seemed  that  she  had  been  cruelly 
used.  The  old  story,  Chandos — a  trusting  woman  and  a  black- 
guard who  had  taken  advantage  of  her  innocence  to  betray 
her." 

"  Dear,  dear;  this  is  dreadful!"  murmured  Chandos.  "  I 
suppose  her  story  was  true.  It  was  not  a  cleverly  got-up  tale 
to  draw  some  money  from  you?" 

"  I  believe  her  story  was  true,"  said  Dane.  "  I'm  not  a 
clever  man  like  you,  Chandos,  but  I'm  not  too  easily  imposed 
upon.  Her  story  was  true — yes!" 

"  But  why  on  earth  did  she  come  to  you?"  said  Chandos, 
curiously. 

"  Well,  it  happened  this  way,"  said  Dane,  staring  hard  at 
his  cigar:  "  Her  betrayer  had  managed  to  keep  her  in  igno- 
rance of  his  real  name,  and  had  left  her,  as  he  thought,  with- 
out any  clew  to  his  identity." 

"  The  scoundrel!"  murmured  Chandos,  with  mild  indigna- 
tion. "  Ah,  my  dear  Dane,  when  will  our  legislature  pass  a 
law  punishing  such  cold-hearted  villainy?  I  trust,  when  you 
get  into  the  Upper  House,  that  you  will  turn  your  attention 
to  this  question." 

"  Y-es,"  said  Dane.  "But  it  seems  that  this  gentleman 
had  been,  as  usual,  not  quite  clever  enough.  He  had  left  a 
handkerchief  in  her  possession — a  handkerchief  marked  with 
his  name." 

Mr.  Chandos  nodded,  with  profound  satisfaction. 

"  But  still  I  don't  see,  Dane,  why  she  should  come  to  you." 

"  Well,  you  see,"  said  Dane,  slowly,  "  the  name  was  the 
same  as  mine — Armitage." 

Mr.  Chandos  raised  himself,  and  opened  his  mouth  like  a 
cod,  then  he  sunk  back  very  red  in  the  face  and  quite  dumb. 

"  The  same  name,"  repeated  Dane.  "  Some  friend  had 
looked  up  the  name  for  her  in  the  directory,  found  mine  and 
my  address,  and  the  poor  girl  had  come  to  my  chambers,  ex- 
pecting to  find  her  betrayer." 

Mr.  Chandos  blew  his  nose  with  his  delicately  scented  hand- 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  41 

kerchief,  and  kept  it  up  before  his  red  face  for  a  lengthened 
period. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

"  I  WAS  naturally  curious  to  know  who  he  was — this  man 
with  the  same  name  as  my  own — and  I  asked  her  to  describe 
him."  He  paused,  and  took  a  draught  of  his  champagne. 
"  You  will  be  surprised  to  hear  that  she  gave  an  exact  descrip- 
tion of  yourself,  Chandos." 

Mr.  Chandos  sat  up,  then  sunk  down  again. 

' '  My  dear  Dane,  I — you — er — ' ' 

"  Hold  on,"  said  Dane,  coldly.  "  I  don't  want  you  to  ex- 
plain  your  conduct,  or  to  make  it  worse  by  lying.  Your  pri- 
vate life  is  no  concern  of  mine;  the  whole  business  would  not 
concern  me  in  any  way,  if  the  girl  had  not  come  to  me.  But 
as  she  had  come  I  could  not  turn  a  deaf  ear  and  a  cold  heart 
to  her  story.  She  says  you  left  her  to  starve. " 

"  My  dear  Dane,  you — you  shock  me.  There — there  must 
be  some  misunderstanding,"  said  Chandos,  rather  huskily,  and 
still  very  red  in  the  face.  "  There  is — er — always — er — a 
great  deal  of  exaggeration  in  these  cases,  and — er — I'm 
afraid—" 

"  Perhaps/'  said  Dane,  sternly;  "  but  I  don't  think  there 
was  in  this  one.  Anyway,  I  gave  her  some  money  for  you, 
and  I  promised  to  give  her  some  every  month — still  on  your 
account.  I  did  this  for  the  honor  of  the  family.  You  can 
pay  me  back,  if  you  like,  and  if  you  don't,  you  can  leave  it 
alone." 

"  My  dear  Dane—" 

"  Hold  on  a  moment.  I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more  about 
it.  I've  got  my  own  opinion  of  your  conduct,  and  I  dare  say 
you  know  what  that  is  without  my  telling  you.  But " — with 
a  sudden  burst  of  indignation,  with  a  sudden  eruption  of  the 
temper  for  which  he  was  famous — "  for  Heaven's  sake!  don't 
vapor  about  sentiment  and  virtue  to  me  any  more,  or  I  shall 
feel  jolly  well  tempted  to  chuck  you  out  of  the  window." 

Mr.  Chandos  turned  pale — for  Dane  had  half  risen  from  his 
chair — and  eyed  his  cousin  with  mingled  fear  and  hate;  and  it 
may  be  said  that  at  .that  moment,  though  he  would  not  have 
had  the  courage  to  stick  Lord  Dane  under  the  fifth  rib,  he 
would  have  looked  on,  while  some  one  else  did  it,  with  cheer- 
ful satisfaction. 

"  I — I  think  you  make  too  much  of  the — the  matter,  my 
dear  Dane,"  he  said,  rather  stammeringly.  "An  affaire  de 


12  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

vceur — an — an  ordinary  flirtation  with — with  a  girl  whom  a 
man  in  my  position  could  not  dream  of — of — marrying — " 

"  No,  you  were  too  good  to  marry  her,  but  not  too  high  and 
mighty  to  'ruin  her,'"  said  Dane,  fiercely.  "There!  for 
Heaven's  sake,  hold  your  tongue!  I  always  thought  you  were 
a  mean  lot,  Chandos,  with  all  your  poetical  rant;  and  now  I 
know  it.  That  will  do.  Better  keep  your  mouth  shut;  you 
can't  better  the  business  by  lying  about  it.  I'm  sorry  to  have 
to  talk  to  you  like  this  while  I  am,  so  to  speak,  your  host — 
but—" 

"My  daar  Dane,  you — you  act  according  to  your  lights," 
murmured  Mr.  Chandos.  "  I — er — never  set  up  to  be  a  par- 
agon of  all  the  virtues.  And  I — er — dare  say — you  yourself 
are  not  Immaculate." 

"  No,"  responded  Dane,  with  a  mixture  of  passionate  indig- 
nation and  self-reproach.  "  I'm  a  bad  lot  enough,  I  know; 

but  I'm  d d  if  I'm  as  bad  as  ^that.  There,  that  will  do. 

Have  some  more  wine — another  cigar?" 

Mr.  Chandos  rose  with  a  very  good  attempt  at  dignity,  but 
was  still  rather  pale,  and  kept  the  table  between  him  and  the 
stalwart,  strong-limbed  Dane. 

"  No,  thanks;  I  have  had  enough,  thank  you;  and  if  you 
will  permit  me  to  say  so,  I  think  you  have  too.  Nothing  but 
— but  the  excellence  of  the  champagne  would  excuse  your — er 
— language.  But  I  forgive  you,  my  dear  Dane,"  he  made 
haste  to  add,  as  Dane  took  his  legs  off  the  chair  and  regarded 
his  virtuous  cousin  with  flashing  eyes — "  I  forgive  you.  I  can 
bear  a  great  deal  at  your  hands,  and — and — I  trust  that  the 
story — which  is  not — er — altogether  correct,  will  not  be  re- 
peated." 

Dane  laughed  savagely. 

"  Yes;  it's  likely  I  should  repeat  it,"  he  growled. 

"  Quite  so.  These — these — small  matters  of  private  senti- 
ment are — er — better  kept  private." 

"  Oh,  go  to — bed!"  exclaimed  Dane. 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  will.  Good-night,  Dane.  I — er — shall  con- 
tinue my  rambles  to-morrow.  I  may  start  early,  quiet  early, 
before  your  breakfast  hour.  If  so,  I  will  say  '  good-bye. '  ' 

He  held  out  his  hand,  but  as  Dane,  with  unusual  short-sight- 
edness, did  not  appear  to  see  it,  Mr.  Chandos  pretended  he 
was  reaching  for  a  match,  took  it,  lighted  a  cigarette,  and 
with  another  softly,  sweetly  murmured  "  Good-night!"  elo- 
quent of  long  suffering  and  forgiveness,  got  himself  out  of  the 
room. 

But  when  the  door  closed,  dividing  him  from  his  indignant 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  43 

and  hot-tempered  cousin,  Mr.  Chandos' s  expression  changed, 
and  his  refined  and  poetic  countenance  contrived  to  display  an 
extraordinary  malignity. 

"  Curse  you!"  he  muttered.  "  You  ride  the  high  horse 
over  me,  do  you?  You  think  because  you  are  the  heir  to  the 
earldom  and  I  am  only  Chandos  Armitage  that  you  can  say 
and  do  what  you  like.  Take  care,  you  bully,  take  care!  My 
time  may  come  some  day.  Er — er — it  is  a  fine  night,  waiter," 
he  broke  off  aloud  as  a  waiter  came  along  the  passage  and,  not 
unnaturally,  stared  at  the  gentleman  who  was  gesticulating 
and  muttering  in  such  an  extraordinary  fashion. 

"  Beautiful  night,  sir;  the  moon  is  a-shinin'  like — like  any- 
thing!" 

"  Ah!  I  think  I  will  take  a  turn  before  going  to  bed." 

He  went  down-stairs  and  got  his  hat,  and  paused  at  the  bar. 

"  I  think  I  will  take  a  glass — a  small  glass — well,  perhaps 
I'd  have  one  of  your  ordinary — er — large  glasses — of  brandy 
and  water  hot,"  he  said,  in  dulcet  tones  to  the  barmaid.  "  I 
do  not  usually  take  it,  but  it  is  as  well  to  be  careful."  He 
drank  this  with  surprising  ease,  considering  its  unfamiliarity, 
and  walked  out. 

The  people  of  Barnstaple  go  to  bed  early,  and  it  is  therefore 
to  be  presumed  that  they  are  wealthy,  healthy  and  wise;  and 
the  streets  seemed  to  be  deserted. 

Mr.  Chandos  strolled  along  smoking  his  cigarette  and  chew- 
ing the  cud  of  Dane's  vigorous  language,  without  meeting  any 
one  for  some  time,  but  presently  he  almost  ran  against  a  man 
coming  out  of  a  small  public-house  at  one  of  the  corners. 

The  man  apologized,  and  was  passing  on,  when  Mr.  Chan- 
dos stopped  with  an  exclamation  of  surprise  and — looked  hard 
at  him. 

"  Why,  Rawdon,  is  that  you?"  he  said. 

The  man  stopped  as  if  he  had  been  shot,  and  stared  at  his 
interlocutor  in  rather  a  confused  and  vinous  manner.  He  was 
a  respectably  dressed  man,  having  something  of  the  appear- 
ance of  a  clerk  or  school -master,  and  his  face  was  rather  a 
weak  than  a  bad  one.  It  was,,however,  heavily  lined,  and, 
but  for  the  flush  which  drink  bestows,  pale  and  careworn. 

He  regarded  Mr.  Chandos  shyly,  reservedly,  for  a  moment, 
then  smiled  feebly. 

"  It's  Chandos  Armitage,  isn't  it?" 

He  had  been  at  the  same  college  with  Chandos,  but  after 
leaving  Cambridge  they  had  gone  their  respective  ways;  and 
Rawdon's  had  been  a  downward  one. 

"  Yes,  it  is  I/'  said  Chandos,  blandly.     "  It  is  very  strange 


44.  ONCE    IK    A    LIFE. 

meeting  you  here  in  this  out-of-the-way  place.  What  are  you 
doing  here,  Rawdon — got  a  living,  curacy?" 

Rawdon  shook  his  head  and  lowered  it  for  a  moment. 

"  N-o,"  he  said.  "  I  didn't  take  orders,  after  all.  I'm 
not  in  the  Church." 

"  No?  Then  what  are  you  doing?  Dear  me!  it  is  years  since 
we  met/'  said  Chandos,  glancing  at  the  other's  black  and 
shabby  garments,  and  at  once  adopting  a  superior  and  rather 
patronizing  tone. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Eawdon,  looking  up  and  down  the  street, 
and  then  shyly  at  the  well-clad  and  flourishing  Mr.  Chandos. 
"  All  sorts  of  things  have  happened  since  then.  You're  pretty 
flourishing,  Armitage,  I  can  see." 

Mr.  Chandos  smiled  with  that  complacency  which  arouses  in 
one  a  burning  desire  to  kick  the  man  who  displays  it. 

"  Yes?  Well,  you've  been  luckier  than  I  have,"  said  Raw- 
don,  with  a  suppressed  sigh.  "  I've  had  a  rough  time  of  it. 
I  meant  going  in  for  the  Church,  as  you  know,  but — but — 
well,  I  came  a  mucker  somehow. " 

Mr.  Chandos  shook  his  sleek  head  reproachfully. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Rawdon,  the  old,  old  story!  Those  dreadful 
cards  and — er — the  wine  cup;  you  were  rather  too  fond  of 
them  in  the  old  college  days!" 

"  Yes,"  assented  Rawdon,  with  a  sigh.  "  Yes,  I  suppose 
that  will  account  for  it;  at  any  rate,  I  got  on  the  down  track; 
it  doesn't  matter  how,  does  it?" 

He  looked  up  and  down  the  street,  and  his  hand  went  to  hia 
lips  in  a  stray,  restive  kind  of  way.  Who  does  not  know  it? 

"  You  don't  care  for  a  drink,  I  suppose,  Armitage?" 

"I  rarely  drink,"  said  the  virtuous  poet.  "Besides,  I'm 
afraid  we  could  not  get  anything  fit  to  drink." 

"  You  can  get  a  decent  drop  of  brandy  in  this  place,"  said 
Mr.  Rawdon,  with  the  air  of  one  who  knows  by  experience; 
and  he  led  the  way  into  the  small  public-house. 

Mr.  Chandos  was  served  with  some  more  hot  brandy,  which 
he  drank  leisurely,  while  Mr.  Rawdon  drank  his  glass  of 
spirits  with  a  feverish  kind  of  impatience. 

"  And  so  you  have  fallen  on  evil  days?"  remarked  Chandos, 
blandly. 

Rawdon  nodded. 

"  Yes.  I  used  to  think  myself  a  clever  sort  of  fellow,  but 
you  see  what  I've  come  to."  He  glanced  down  at  his  seedy 
clothes.  Mr.  Chandos  offered  him  a  cigarette,  but  Rawdon 
shook  his  head  and  lighted  a  strong-looking  pipe.  "  Every- 
thing went  wrong  with  me.  I  could  have  passed  for  the 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  45 

Church,  or  the  Army,  or  the  Bar,  or  anything,  if  it  hadn't 
been  for — " 

He  lifted  his  glass  significantly. 

"  Dear,  dear!  Ah,  my  dear  Rawdon,  what  a  curse  thisdrinK 
is!"  murmured  Mr.  Chandos,  as  he  sipped  his  steaming  toddy 
with  a  pious  sigh. 

"  Yes/'  assented  Rawdon,  dryly;  "but  it's  the  kind  of 
curse  that  men  like  myself  would  rather  have  than  a  blessing." 

"  And  what  are  you  doing  now?"  inquired  Mr.  Chandos. 

Rawdon  shrugged  his  shoulders  apologetically. 

"  At  present  I'm  teaching  elocution  and  history  at  a  ladies' 
school  here,"  he  said.  "  It  isn't  much  of  a  berth,  but  it 
keeps  the  wolf  from  the  door  and  finds  me  in  clothes,  such  as 
they  are,  and — and  tobacco.  I  suppose  you  don't  know  of  any- 
thing better?  You'd  help  an  old  friend,  I  suppose,  Armi- 
tage?" 

"  Can  you  doubt  it?"  murmured  Mr.  Chandos,  who 
wouldn't  have  helped  him  on  any  consideration.  "  No,  my 
dear  Rawdon.  If  there  is  any  sentiment  which  lingers  longer 
and  clings  closer  to  the  human  heart,  it  is —  I  say  " — the 
brandy  and  water  on  the  top  of  the  champagne  was  rather 
muddling — "  if  there  is  any  sentiment  which  I  foster  with  the 
greatest  care,  it  is  the  friendship  of  early  youth.  Be  sure,  if 
I  hear  of  anything  that  would — er — suit  you,  that  I  will  com- 
municate with  you  at  once.  Hear  me!  it's  a  thousand  pities 
you  didn't  go  into  the  Church.  Why,  you  look  more  like  a 
parson  than  anything  else  now!" 

Rawdon  laughed  bitterly. 

"  Do  I?  That  is  because  I  dress  in  black  clothes.  It's  more 
respectable,  and  the  school-mistress  where  I  teach  likes  it. 
Well,  will  you  have  another?  No?  Then  I  will.  You'd 
better.  Fill  up  this  gentleman's  glass,  Jennie." 

Mr.  Chandos  did  not  protest  very  firmly,  and  while  he  sipped 
his  third  glass,  he  regarded  his  companion  and  old  college 
chum  with  a  thoughtful  smile,  though  with  rather  a  doubtful 
and  double  vision. 

"  And  you,  I  suppose,"  said  Rawdon,  "  are  as  flourishing 
as  ever.  Let  me  see,  weren't  you  next  heir  to  some  swell  earl 
—the  earl  of— of— I  forget—" 

"The  Earl  of  Starminster,"  said  Mr.  Chandos.  "My 
cousin — ('curse  him!')"  he  put  in,  mentally — "  Dane  Armi- 
tage  is  the  heir,  you  remember." 

"  Yes,  I  remember,"  said  Rawdon.  "  A  fine  fellow.  Was 
stroke  in  the  'varsity  boat.  Yes,  I  remember;  and  there  is 


46  CHS'CE    LST    A    LIFE. 

only  his  life  between  you  and  this  title,  eh?  By  Jove!  if  an; - 
thing  should  happen  to  him,  or  he  shouldn't  marry — " 

Mr.  Chandos  set  his  teeth  hard. 

"  Nothing  is  likely  to  happen  to  him,"  he  said,  bitterly; 
"  and  he's  sure  to  marry;  he's  engaged,  as  it  is." 

Rawdon  laughed  rather  unfeelingly.  Mr.  Chandos  consid- 
ered. 

"  That's  rather  hard  lines  on  you,  Armitage.  Well,  if  yo;1 
do  come  into  the  title  by  any  fluke,  don't  forget  an  old  friend. " 

"  I  won't — I  won't,"  asseverated  Mr.  Chandos. 

"  Thanks.  Look  here,  I'll  give  you  my  card,  so  that  you 
can  write  to  me  if  anything  turns  up." 

He  pulled  out  an  old  and  rather  greasy  pocket-book,  and 
extracted  a  card.  It  read: 

"  EGBERT  RAWDON, 

Teacher  of  Elocution  and  History, 

No.  28  Clongate  Street,  Barnstaple." 

•''  I'd  ask  vou  to  come  and  see  me,  but  my  diggings  are  too 
shabby  for  you,  and  I'm  ashamed  to  do  so.  I'm  awfully  hard 
up.  If — if  you  can  lend  me  a  fiver,  for  God's  sake,  do  so, 
Armitage." 

"  My  de-ar  fellow!"  murmured  Mr.  Chandos,  who,  though 
he  had  taken  more  than  was  good  for  him,  was  not  quite  in- 
toxicated, "  I  should  be  delighted,  delighted;  but,  unfortunate- 
ly, I  have  left  my  purse  at  the  hotel.  Good-night,  and  God 
bless  you!" 

"  Good^night,"  said  Rawdon,  rather  dryly.  "  Here,  you 
haven't  taken  the  card." 

"Bless  me — yes!"  said  Mr.  Chandos;  and  he  took  it  and 
stuck  it  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  hurried  off,  little  dream- 
ing how  soon  he  would  find  his  old  friend  useful. 

Mr.  Chandos  went  to  bed  and  slept  heavily,  to  wake  the 
next  morning  with  a  "head  on."  To  Dane  came  the  sleep 
which  blesses  the  strong  and  the  temperate,  though  it  was 
haunted  by  dreams  in  which  he  swam  for  dear  life  in  the  cur- 
rents of  the  Taw,  and  fancied  himself  floating  out  to  sea  with 
an  angel,  whose  face  was  singularly  like  that  of  Lyra  Chester, 
hovering  over  him  and  keeping  death  at  arm's-length. 

But  the  sleep-god  refused  to  settle  on  the  eyes  of  Lyra  until 
the  night  watches  had  faded  into  the  hours  of  the  cool  gray 
dawn. 

And  when  she  fell  asleep  it  was  to  dream  that  Dane  Armi- 
tage was  sitting  by  her  in  his  wet  clothes,  his  arms  folded  be- 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  47 

hind  his  head,  his  eyes,  with  their  frank,  pleasant  smile,  rest- 
ing on  her. 

She  woke  with  a  start  to  remember — it  flashed  upon  her  in 
the  first  moments  of  consciousness — that  he  had  promised  to 
come  again  that  day. 

Would  he  come?  Was  it  not  more  likely  that  he  would  forget 
all  about  it;  that,  tired  of  the  place  and  of  his  adventure,  he 
would  take  the  first  train  back  to  London,  to  that  world  which 
yas  so  unknown  to  her,  so  full  of  mystery  and  enchantment? 

She  went  down  and  into  the  garden  and  looked  round,  and 
instinctively  her  eyes  wandered  to  the  seat  on  which  he  had  sat. 

Was  it  only  yesterday  that  he  had  sat  there?  It  seemed 
ages  and  ages  ago;  it  seemed  as  if  she  had  known  him  for 
years,  as  if  he  had  become  a  part  of  her  life's  history. 

Mr.  Chester,  coming  down,  found  her  leaning  against  the 
porch,  the  pigeons  and  the  chickens  fluttering  round  her,  and 
for  the  first  time  disregarded. 

"  Is  there  to  be  any  breakfast  this  morning,  Lyra?"  he 
asked.  And  she  did  not  notice  that  his  voice  was  more  than 
usually  querulous. 

She  went  in  and  poured  out  his  coffee  for  him;  but  she  was 
strangely  silent.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  not  talk,  as 
if  something  were  going  to  happen,  and  as  if  she  were  waiting 
for  it. 

Once  or  twice  she  caught  herself  listening,  and  at  such 
times  she  started  half  guiltily  and  blushed. 

"  Father,"  she  said,  at  last,  "  Lord  Armitage  has  promised 
to  come  here  this  morning  and  show  me  horn  to  fish.  May  I 
go  with  him?" 

Her  father  looked  up  from  the  book  which  always  lay  beside 
his  plate,  an  old  edition  of  Quarles's  "  Emblems." 

"  What?"  he  said,  absently.  "  May  you  go  where?  Yes, 
yes;  why  do  you  ask?" 

She  went  outside  into  the  garden  again  after  breakfast,  and 
fed  the  pigeons;  but  she  had  no  word  for  them  that  morning, 
and  threw  them  their  corn  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  sands, 
which  soon  would  be  covered  by  the  tide — the  tide  which  had 
nearly  swept  Mm  out  of  life  yesterday. 

Nine,  ten  o'clock  was  struck  by  the  tall,  rusty-tongued 
clock  on  the  stairs,  and  still  he  did  not  come. 

She  plucked  a. rose  from  the  bush  from  which  she  had  gath- 
ered one  for  him  yesterday — or  was  it  years  ago? — and  was 
going  into  the  house  with  a  strange  feeling  of  sadness  and  dis- 
appointment weighing  heavily  upon  her,  when  suddenly  she 
heard  a  footstep. 


48  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

It  might  have  been  Griffith's,  the  maid's;  but  she  knew  it 
was  neither.  She  stood,  her  heart  beating  wildly — why,  why* 
she  asked  herself,  with  a  kind  of  fierce  resentment — then  she 
heard  his  voice  at  the  gate  and  went  to  meet  him. 

His  eyes,  with  the  frank  smile  in  them — and — and  was 
there  something  else?  something  more  tender  and  gentle  than 
a  smile? — dwelt  on  hers. 

"  Am  I  too  early?"  he  asked. 

Her  heart  bounded  with  a  kind  of  amazement  at  the  ques- 
tion. Too  early?  Why,  had  she  not  been  waiting  hours, 
days,  months? 

"  N-o,"  she  said;  and  she  knew  her  voice  faltered.  "  N-o; 
I  am  quite  ready;"  and  she  gave  him  her  small,  softly  warm 
hand.  . 

Oh,  Love,  cruel  Love!  Here  is  one  who  has  done  you  no 
harm,  one  so  innocent,  so  pure,  so  free  from  earthly  taint  that 
surely  you  will,  must,  spare  her.  But  Love  has  no  pity. 

"  God  made  woman  perfect;  man  spoiled  her;  Love  re- 
deems her." 

"  I've  got  the  rod,"  said  Dane.  "  Shall  we  go  at  once?  Th« 
trout  are  rising,  I  think." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

DANE  and  Lyra  walked  side  by  side  up  the  valley,  and  at 
first  they  were  rather  silent.  Perhaps  Dane  was  engaged  in 
listening  to  the  chidings  of  his  guilty  conscience;  perhaps  she 
was  rather  overwhelmed  by  the  strangeness  and  novelty  of  the 
situation.  It  was  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  she  had  been 
alone  with  a  man,  young,  pleasant,  and  good  to  look  upon; 
and  perhaps  she  was  too  full  of  wonder  at  his  graciousness  in 
coming  all  the  way  from  Barnstaple  to  take  the  trouble  of 
teaching  her  to  fish.  Certainly,  her  silence  was  not  caused  by 
a  guilty  conscience.  She  did  not  know  that  she  was  sinning 
against  the  conventionalities  in  spending  the  morning  alone 
with  him;  that  she  ought  to  have  had  a  chaperon  with  her. 

They  walked  through  the  little  wood  with  the  sun  shining 
through  the  leaves  and  touching  her  hair  with  flecks  of  gold, 
and  emerged  into  the  clearer  valley. 

"  What  a  lovely  morning,"  she  said  at  last,  and  almost  to 
herself. 

Dane  shook  his  head. 

"  Rather  too  fine  for  our  work,"  he  said,  eying  the  sun  and 
bright  blue  sky  reproachfully. 

"Really?" 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  49 

"  Yes,  it's  a  bit  too  bright;  you  see,  the  trout  can  see  you 
afar  off,  and  see  the  line,  and  recognize  the  fact  that  the  flies 
are  made  of  feathers,  and  have  a  suspicious-looking  hook  under- 
neath then.  But,  never  mind,  perhaps  we  shall  have  some 
luck,  and  it  will  cloud  over  and  rain.  Though,"  he  added, 
glancing  at  her  simple  morning  frock,  which  for  all  its  sim- 
plicity seemed  to  him  the  prettiest  dress,  the  most  becoming 
he  had  ever  seen.  Once  again,  as  he  looked  at  her,  he  thought 
of  pictures  he  had  seen  in  the  illustrated  papers  and  the  Acad- 
emy. She  was  like  one  of  the  girls  Lester  paints  so  exquisitely; 
the  lovely,  frank-eyed,  innocent  school-girl,  with  the  promise 
of  a  more  lovely  womanhood  shining  in  those  eyes — "  though 
I'm  afraid  you'd  get  wet,  and  that  wouldn't  do." 

She  smiled. 

"  Oh,  it  would  not  matter.  I  am  used  to  getting  wet,  and 
I  have  nothing  on  that  will  spoil.  This  frock,"  she  added, 
answering  his  glance  at  it,  "  is  as  old  as  the  hills." 

"  All  right,"  he  said.  "  I'll  put  up  the  rods  now.  This  is 
yours." 

"  What  a  pretty  one!"  she  said;  "  and  it  looks  quite  new." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  fine  suppression  of  the  truth;  he  did 
not  want  her  to  think  he  had  bought  it  specially  for  her.  "  I 
haven't  used  it  much.  I  hope  it  will  suit  you,  that  it  won't 
be  too  heavy;"  and  he  spoke  as  anxiously  as  if  a  kingdom  de- 
pended upon  it. 

She  whisked  it  to  and  fro  in  the  awfully  reckless  fashion  of 
the  novice,  and  Dane  thought  to  himself,  "  She'll  smash  the 
top  the  first  go  off;  glad  I  brought  a  second  one." 

"  NOAV  I'll  show  you  how  to  run  the  line  in.  See?  Now 
you  put  on  the  gut — the  '  collar,'  as  they  call  it;  you  see,  it's 
as  fine  as  a  hair  and  the  color  of  water;  and  now  for  the  fly. 
Let  me  think — yes,"  he  selected  an  artificial  fly  from  his  book 
and  put  it  on  the  gut  line.  '"'  Pretty,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes;  but  it  doesn't  look  very  much  like  a  real  fly,"  said 
Lyra,  critically. 

' '  Oh,  it  does  when  it  is  on  the  water.  It  would  take  a  very 
clever  fish  to  detect  the  difference.  And  now  I'll  show  you 
how  to  throw  it." 

"  I  think  I'd  rather  watch  you  do  it  for  a  few  times,"  said 
Lyra,  with  becoming  modesty. 

"  All  right,"  he  said. 

He  put  up  his  own  rod  quickly,  advanced  to  the  stream  cau- 
tiously and  threw  the  fly  lightly,  and  Lyra,  as  she  watched 
him,  discovered  that  the  art  of  fly-fishing  was,  at  any  rate,  a 
verj  graceful  one.  He  whipped  the  stream  for  a  hundred 


50  ONCE    EST    A 

yards  or  s^ ,  but  the  sun  was  streaming  on  the  water,  and  the 
fish  saw  him  and  refused  to  be  caught;  and  he  came  back  to 
her  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

"  Too  bright,"  he  said.  "  Never  mind,  it  will  be  practice 
for  you.  i\ow  hold  your  rod  like  this,  firmly,  but  still  lightly, 
don't  you  know." 

It  was  necessary,  absolutely  necessary,  that  he  should  place 
her  fingers  round  the  rod,  and  for  a  moment  or  two  he  inclosed 
her  small  hand  in  his;  but  Lyra  was  too  absorbed  in  her  en- 
deavors to  follow  his  instructions  to  notice  it,  though  the  touch 
of  her  hand  throbbed  through  him. 

"  That's  right;  now  creep  quietly  to  the  stream — not  too 
close — and  throw  the  fly  like  this — see?" 

Lyra  raised  the  rod,  and  hurled,  literally  hurled,  the  fly  at 
the  water,  so  that  every  trout  within  sight  and  hearing  was 
scared  to  death,  and  fled  wildly  up  stream. 

"  Oh,  dear!"  she  said,  ruefully;  "  and  it  looked  so  easy." 

He  laughed  encouragingly. 

"So  do  most  things  till  you  try  'em.  Sewing  looks  easy 
enough,  when  you're  watching  a  lady  do  it,  but  I  expect  I 
should  find  it  pretty  difficult.  Don't  you  be  down-hearted; 
that  wasn't  a  bad  throw — for  the  first,"  he  said,  mendaciously. 
"  Try  again — here,  let  me  hold  your  hand  and  guide  it.  Now 
then — let  the  rod  go  of  itself,  it  only  wants  a  movement  of  the 
wrist — see?  That's  better.  I  told  you  you  could  manage  it." 

"  But  you  threw  that,"  remarked  Lyra,  gravely. 

"  Not  altogether,"  he  said.  "  Now  try  by  yourself.  That's 
better.  Now  another — let  the  line  describe  a  curve  and  fall 
naturally,  lightly.  See!  That  was  a  fish  rose  that  time;  it 
was  indeed." 

"  Was  it?    I  didn't  see  it,"  she  said,  eagerly. 

"  That's  because  you've  not  got  used  to  looking  out  for 
them,"  he  responded,  promptly.  "  Presently  you'll  get  as 
sharp  as  a  hawk.  Now  I'm  going  to  step  back  and  leave  you 
a  full  hand." 

Lyra  at  once  took  advantage  of  it  to  throw  the  fly  over  her 
shoulder,  and  nearly  caught  him  in  the  face  with  it.  He 
grinned  behind  her  back;  it  was  not  the  first  time  he  had 
taught  the  art,  and  knew  his  danger. 

He  stood  and  watched  her,  and  as  he  watched,  he  forgot  his 
business  in  rapt  admiration.  The  lithe  figure,  as  it  raised  itself 
to  its  full  height  and  swung  its  arm,  the  poise  of  the  beauti- 
fully shaped,  golden-hued  head  filled  him  with  an  ecstatic  de- 
light which  shone  hi  his  eyes.  She  looked  over  her  shoulder, 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  51 

and  very  nearly  caught  the  expression,  which  he  rapidly 
changed  to  an  impersonally  critical  one. 

"  Is  that  better?"  she  asked,  anxiously. 

"  It's  perfect,"  he  replied,  off  his  guard  for  a  moment.  "  I 
— I  mean  that  it's  much  better.  Don't  throw  hard — as  lightly 
as  you  can,  remember." 

"  Do  you  think  I  shall  catch  any  fish?"  she  asked,  inno- 
cently, after  two  or  three  more  throws. 

"  I'm  certain  you  will,"  he  responded,  with  a  shameless  dis- 
regard of  the  truth.  "  If  it  would  only  cloud  over!"  he  mut- 
tered, fervently.  He  had  set  his  heart  upon  her  catching  at 
Jeast  one. 

"  There  is  a  cloud  over  there,"  said  Lyra,  nodding  toward 
the  west. 

"  So  there  is,"  he  said,  hopefully.  "  I'll  smoke  a  pipe;  it 
generally  brings  rain." 

She  laughed  softly.  The  gentlest  joke  of  this  young  man 
brought  the  laughter  to  her  lips  and  eyes. 

"  But  this  must  be  very  wearisome  for  you,  Lord  Armitage?" 
she  said  presently,  and  after  a  dozen  throws.  "  You  will  be 
very  sorry  you  offered  to  teach  me." 

"Perhaps  I  shall,"  he  assented.  "Anyhow,  I'll  tell  you 
when  I'm  tired  of  it;  that's  a  bargain,  eh?" 

She  nodded. 

"  Is  your  arm  getting  tired?"  he  asked  presently,  and  in  a 
gravely  tender  tone. 

She  shook  her  head. 

'*  No,  no;  not  in  the  least.  Do  you  know,  I  think  I  saw 
one  run  at  the  fly  just  then." 

"  Very  likely,"  he  said,  knowing  that  no  fish  would  venture 
within  a  hundred  yards  of  the  flopping  fly.  "  You  shouldn't 
say  '  run,'  because,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  fish  don't  run.  Say 
£rise!" 

"  Yes."  she  assented,  with  a  meekness  that  instantly  made 
nim  feel  like  a  brute  for  correcting  her. 

She  made  her  way  slowly  up  the  stream,  and  he  walked  be- 
side her,  out  of  reach  of  the  hook,  and  she  cast  the  fly  for 
some  minutes  in  silence.  He  could  see  that  she  was  trying  her 
hardest.  Her  brows  were  drawn  straight,  the  firm,  expressive 
lips  were  shut  closely,  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  stream.  It 
was  evident  that  she  had  almost  forgotten  him,  and  he 
smoked,  and  watched  her  with  a  continued  sense  of  infinite 
pleasure  and  satisfaction. 

Ely-fishing  IL  the  poetry  of  spori     You  wander  beside  a  sil- 


52  rOKCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

ver  stream  that  babbles  rippling  music,  to  which  the  birds 
keep  up  a  soft  and  constant  accompaniment.  The  trees  are  in 
their  freshest  greenery;  the  banks  are  gemmed  with  wild- 
flowers,  rustic  gentian,  graceful  rushes,  velvety  moss.  A  but- 
terfly flutters  from  flower  to  flower;  a  dragon-fly,  in  all  the 
glory  of  its  gorgeous  summer  dress,  soars  over  the  water, 
chased  by  a  still  more  gorgeous  kingfisher.  The  air  is  soft, 
balmy,  and  full  of  a  strange  and  mystic  charm.  On  such  a 
morning  one  realizes  how  truly  the  poet  understood  the  case 
when  he  sung: 

"  In  the  spring  a  livelier  iris  changes  on  the  burnished  dove; 
In  the  spring  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of  love." 

Dane,  as  he  followed  Lyra,  all  unconsciously  was  thinking 
of  her — and  of  love. 

How  innocent,  how  unconscious  she  was!  Most  girls  would 
have  thought  more  of  their  companion,  of  then-  pose,  how  they 
looked,  and  whether  he  was  admiring  them;  but  this  girl  had 
evidently  forgotten  herself  and  him,  was  completely  absorbed 
in  her  lesson.  Some  day,  he  thought,  some  man  will  come 
along  and  win  her  heart,  wake  the  love  in  it,  and  she  will  turn 
those  beautiful  eyes  upon  him  with  a  look  that  ought,  if  it 
does  not,  send  him  half  mad  with  joy  and  rapture. 

Yes,  that  would  happen  some  day,  and  to  some  lucky  fellow. 
He  sighed.  The  sigh  startled  her,  and  she  stopped  and 
looked  at  him. 

"  You  are  getting  tired,  Lord  Armitage,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  no!"  he  said,  hastily,  for  she  had  startled  him  by  her 
sudden  turn.  "  But  I'm  afraid  you  will  be,  and  then  I  shall 
never  forgive  myself .  Look  here;  I'll  take  a  few  turns.  Never 
mind;  I've  left  my  rod  behind  there." 

"  Won't  mine  do?" 

He  took  the  rod;  the  butt  was  warm  with  her  grasp;  it  was 
almost  as  good  as  clasping  her  hand. 

"  Thanks,"  he  said.     "  It  ought  to  bring  me  luck." 

As  it  happened,  the  cloud  floated  over  the  sun  just  then,  and 
his  opportunity  came.  Throwing  with  the  greatest  care,  he 
got  a  rise;  the  next  moment  a  trout,  gleaming  like  silver,  lay 
flopping  on  the  grass  at  her  feet. 

Lyra  started  back  with  a  little  cry,  then  blushed  and  laughed 
shamefacedly. 

"  It  was  so  sudden,"  she  said.  "  How  did  you  manage  it? 
How  pretty  it  looks!  It — it  seems  rather  a  pity  to  catch  it." 

He  laughed. 

"  For  goodness'  sake,  don't  say  that/'  he  said.     "  Fish  aro 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  53 

meant  to  be  caught — and  eaten;  and  lie  has  had  his  amuse* 
ment.  Don't  say  it's  wicked,  like  Theo — " 

"  Like  Theodosia?"  she  said.  "  I  remember.  No,  I  won't, 
for  I  don't  think  there  is  any  harm  in  it." 

He  put  the  trout  in  the  basket  hanging  at  his  back,  and 
with  a  glance  at  the  sky,  handed  her  the  rod. 

"  Now  then!  Pll  wager  a  thousand  to  one  that  you  catch 
a  trout  now.  It  wasn't  your  fault  altogether  that  you  haven't 
done  so  before.  Now,  carefully,  and  very  lightly,  mind!  You 
see  that  broken  water  there — that  little  eddy  in  front  of  that 
stone;  throw  the  fly  there.  Just  let  it  drop.  That's  it! 
Again — lightly,  mind!" 

She  threw  the  fly,  and  fairly  well;  and,  as  much  to  his  de- 
light as  hers,  caught  a  trout.  Of  course  she  jerked  it  out  as 
jf  ifc  weighed  at  least  a  ton  and  a  half,  and  of  course  it  went 
whirling  round  her  head  two  or  three  times,  narrowly  missing 
Dane's  eyes  and  nose. 

"  Oh,  dear!"  she  exclaimed.     "  When  will  it  stop!" 

He  caught  the  line,  unhooked  the  fish,  and  showed  it  to 
her,  his  eyes  aglow  with  pleasure  in  her  pleasure  and  satis- 
faction. 

"  And  I  really  caught  it?"  she  exclaimed.  "  It  doesn't 
sound  possible!"  She  began  to  prepare  for  another  then  im- 
mediately. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  say  to  fly-fishing  now?"  he  asked,  with 
a  smile. 

"  It  is  delightful!"  she  said.  There  was  silence  for  awhile, 
and  presently  she  caught  a  couple  more.  A  bright  light  shone 
in  her  eyes,  a  delicious  color  warmed  the  clear  ivory  of  her 
cheeks,  her  lips  smiled  gratefully  upon  him. 

"  I  understand  it  now,"  she  said,  thoughtfully. 

"  Yes;  you  only  want  to  catch  a  trout  to  get  the  angling 
mania,"  he  said,  laughing.  "  You're  sorry  you  didn't  know 
the  art  before,  aren't  you?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said;  "  and  I  should  never  have  thought  of 
trying  if  you  had  not  been  kind  enough  to  teach  me.  And, 
oh,  what  a  trouble  I  must  be  to  you!  It  must  be  so  much 
nicer  to  fish  one  "s  self  than  teaching  some  stupid  person. " 

"  That's  all  right,"  he  said;  "  and  don't  call  yourself 
names.  You're  quicker  at  it  than  most  people." 

"  Than  the  young  lady  you  call  Theodosia?"  she  asked, 
innocently. 

"Oh,  yes;  ever  so  much!"  he  replied,  briefly.  "And 
now,  what  do  you  say  to  moistening  the  fish?  It's  generally 


54  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

done  at  thfe  stage — just  enough  to  encourage  the  rest,  you 
know. "  He  had  changed  the  subject  quickly. 

"Moistening  the  fish?"  she  asked.  Though  she  had 
learned  to  catch  trout,  she  had  not  yet  acquired  the  angler's 
slang. 

He  drew  a  silver  sherry  flask  from  his  pocket. 

"  We  really  moisten  ourselves,  but  we  put  it  the  other  way, 
out  of  politeness  to  the  fish.  I  don't  know  whether  you're 
hungry — you  ought  to  be;  I  am,  fearfully.  Shall  we  sit  down 
and  get  some  lunch?" 

She  looked  the  picture  of  self-reproach. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry;  but  I — I  quite  forgot  to  bring  any- 
thing!" 

"  That's  all  right,"  he  responded,  cheerfully,  in  his  pet 
phrase.  "  I  thought  of  it.  See!"  He  dived  into  liis  pocket 
and  produced  a  sandwich-case. 

"I'm  afraid  they'll  taste  of  trout,"  he  said.  "  They  al- 
ways do,  however  carefully  you  wrap  'em  up  in  paper  or  tin. 
Where's  a  nice  place?" 

He  found  a  bowlder  standing  up  in  the  mossy  grass,  and 
flicked  the  top  of  it  with  his  handkerchief. 

"  There's  a  seat  for  you,"  he  said.  "  Give  me  your  rod. 
Or,  better  still,  why  not  sit  on  the  grass  and  lean  against  the 
stone.  That's  the  thing.  I  hope  it's  comfortable?" 

"  It's  as  good  as  an  arm-chair,"  she  said. 

He  opened  the  by  no  means  small  sandwich-case,  and  ex- 
tended it  to  her. 

"  Own  up  that  you're  hungry,  now?"  he  said. 

Lyra  laughed  softly,  her  eyes  reflecting  the  happy,  careless 
smile  in  his. 

"  You  needn't  be  afraid,"  he  said.  "  There's  enough  for 
three;  it's  wonderful  what  this  case  holds." 

Sandwiches  are,  as  a  rule,  tasteless  and  deceptive  fare;  but 
on  this  lovely  morning,  in  this  pure  and  flower-scented  air, 
with  the  stream  making  music,  with  the  bright  June  sun  shin- 
ing down  from  the  blue  sky,  sandwiches  took  to  themselves  a 
new  and  delicious  flavor,  and  seemed  a  banquet  fit  for  the  gods. 

Dane  dropped  down  beside  her  and  extended  his  long  length 
on  the  spring  grass,  and  eat  with  the  happiness  and  content  of 
the  Lotus-eater. 

"  I  wish  I'd  brought  some  champagne,"  he  murmured, 
presently.  "  I  could  have  put  a  small  bottle  in  the  basket 
easily  enough.  I'm  an  idiot." 

"Do  you  like  it  so  much?"  she  said,  ingeniously.  "I 
never  tasted  it." 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  55 

"  I  wish  I  had  brought  some  more  than  ever,  nowi  And, 
oh!  by  George,  I  forgot  to  bring  a  glass!  You  don't  mind 
drinking  out  of  the  cup  at  the  bottom  of  the  flask?  Shall  I 
put  some  water  with  the  sherry?" 

"  I  think  I'll  have  plain  water,"  she  said.  "  I  seldom  or 
ever  drink  wine." 

"  I  don't  think — mind,  I'm  not  sure — but  I  don't  think  you 
can  moisten  the  fish  properly  with  water.  They  prefer  wine." 

He  half  filled  the  cup  of  the  flask  with  water  and  filled  it  up 
with  the  sherry — not  public-house  sherry,  but  from  the  famous 
Starminster  cellars. 

"  It  is  very  nice,"  said  Lyra.  "  But  what  are  you  going  to 
drink  out  of?" 

"  Oh,  the  same  cup  will  do,"  he  said  as  nonchalantly  as  he 
could.  "  I  take  my  sherry  neat." 

He  would  not  have  washed  the  cup  for  worlds,  and  he  tried 
to  notice  from  which  side  she  drank  that  he  might  drink  from 
the  same. 

"  Another  sandwich?  Why  is  it  that  one  enjoys  one's  grub 
— I  beg  your  pardon — lunch  so  much  more  in  the  open  air 
than  in-doors?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Lyra,  dreamily.  "  But  who  would 
not  rather  be  out-of-doors  than  in  such  a  day  as  this?  How 
you  must  enjoy  fishing,  and  eating  your  lunch  like  this — a 
quiet  picnic  all  by  yourself!" 

"  Yes,"  he  said — "  sometimes.  But  sometimes  it  isn't  so 
pleasant."  He  leaned  back  on  his  elbow,  and  looked  up  at 
her  exquisite  profile  with  a  perfect  contentment.  "  I  remem- 
ber once,  when  I  was  on  the  Rockies — the  Rocky  Mountains  in 
America — hunting  a  grizzly  bear,  when  I  should  much  have 
preferred  to  have  been  in-doors." 

"  Yes,"  &he  said,  looking  down  at  him,  with  almost  childish 
eagerness  in  her  eloquent  eyes. 

"  Yes;  it  was  a  beast  of  a  day — was  snowing  hard,  had  been 
snowing  for  weeks — months,  I  should  think.  I'd  been  out  on 
the  track  since  early  morning,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  day  I 
thought  I'd  have  a  snack,  as  we  are  doing  now.  I'd  got  the 
same  sandwich-case  and  flask,  by  the  way." 

She  glanced  at  them  as  if  they  had  suddenly  acquired  a  new 
interest  in  her  eyes. 

"I  sat  down  in  a  kind  of  cave — just  hi  the  mouth  of  it — 
out  of  the  snow,  and  was  enjoying  myself  as  much  as  a  man 
can  when  he's  bitterly  cold,  and  knows,  by  the  best  of  all  evi- 
dences, that  he  has  got  several  pounds  of  snow  down  his  back, 
when  I  saw  a  shadow  across  the  mouth  of  the  cave,  and  the 


56  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

next  moment  the  owner  of  the  shadow  appeared.  It  was  an 
Indian,  and  not  one  of  a  friendly  tribe.  In  fact,  as  Artemus 
Ward  says,  '  all  Injuns,'  whether  friendly  or  not,  '  arep'ison.' 
This  gentleman  looked  anything  but  pleasant,  and  he  eyed  my 
flask  and  sandwich-case  with  an  expression  which  plainly 
showed  that  he  wouldn't  mind  adding  them  to  his  family  plate. 
He'd  got  a  rifle  and  a  scalping-knife,  and  " — he  broke  off  as 
he  saw  her  shudder — "  my  rifle  lay  near  my  hand,  but  I  knew 
that  if  I  reached  out  for  it,  he  would  shoot  me  before  I  could 
raise  it  to  my  shoulder;  and  so,  though  I  should  much  have 
preferred  putting  a  bullet  through  him,  I  made  friendly  signs 
to  him,  and  offered  him  a  sandwich.  Now,  an  Indian,  of 
whatever  tribe,  will  eat  anything.  They  most  live  on  grass- 
hoppers and  dogs — dogs  count  as  a  luxury.  So  he  took  all 
the  sandwiches  that  remained — there  was  very  little  pride 
about  him — and  put  the  sandwich-case  in  his  pocket." 

"  Oh!" 

"  Yes.  Rough,  wasn't  it?  Then  he  pointed  to  the  flask. 
I  made  signs  io  him  to  hold  out  his  tin  cup  and  I'd  give  him 
some,  but  he  shook  his  head  and  pointed  to  the  flask.  Now, 
I'd  had  that  flask  a  long  while.  It  was  an  old  friend,  and  I 
don't  hold  with  parting  with  a  friend  without  a  struggle,  so  I 
shook  my  head." 

He  gave  a  charming  grunt  and  raised  his  gun,  and  I  should 
have  been  an  interesting  corpse  shortly  afterward,  but  at  that 
moment —  This  is  a  true  story,  Miss  Chester." 

'*  Oh,  yes,  yes!"  she  breathed,  eagerly.     "  Please  go  on!" 

"  Well,  at  that  moment  we  both  heard  a  growl  behind  me, 
and  out  of  the  darkness  of  the  cave  came  something  that 
looked  like  a  huge  rusty  mat  on  two  legs,  with  another  couple 
of  legs  pawing  the  air. " 

"  The— the  bear!"  breathed  Lyra. 

"  It  was  the  bear — yes;  and  a  remarkably  fine  and  vicious 
one.  I  threw  myself  on  my  face.  Off  went  the  gun,  and  I 
wondered  whether  I  was  shot  or  going  to  be  chewed  into  small 
pieces,  when,  looking  up,  I  saw  the  Indian  on  the  ground  and 
the  bear  on  top  of  him.  He  sprung  over  me. "  Lyra  uttered 
a  cry — only  a  woman  can  do  it — a  combination  of  horror  and 
relief.  "  I  scrambled  to  my  feet  and  snatched  up  my  rifle; 
but  the  bear  and  the  man  were  so  beautifully  mingled  that  I 
was  afraid  to  fire  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  when  I  did,  I 
missed  with  the  first  barrel,  but  with  the  second  I  stretched 
the  bear  on  the  top  of  the  Indian,  as  dead  as  a  herring!" 

Lyra  drew  a  breath  of  relief. 

"  That  was  returning  good  for  evil,"  she  said;  and  the 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  57 

quiver  In  her  voice  showed,  though  she  smiled,  how  much  thi« 
story  had  affected  her.  "  How  grateful  and  ashamed  of  him- 
self he  must  have  been!"  she  added. 

"  Ahem!  Well,  that's  the  proper  kind  of  ending  to  the  ad- 
venture, I'm  aware,"  said  Dane,  with  a  laugh;  "  but,  to  tell 
the  truth,  it  didn't  finish  up  in  that  story-book  kind  of  way. 
No,  your  Indian  is  never  grateful,  and  couldn't  be  ashamed  if 
he  tried.  Directly  he  got  up  on  his  feet  and  found  he  wasn't 
dead,  he  remembered  that  he  had  another  charge  in  his  gun, 
and  that  it  was  a  pity  the  flask  shouldn't  go  with  the  sandwioh- 
box,  so  he  aimed  at  me  again.  You  can't  believe  it?"  He 
rolled  up  the  sleeve  of  his  Norfolk  jacket  and  bared  his  arm, 
and  Lyra  saw  a  furrow  drawn,  as  if  by  a  red  pencil,  across  the 
flesh.  "  I  put  up  my  arm  and  caught  it  there,  instead  of  my 
head,  and  then  I  gently  knocked  him  down  with  the  butt  end 
of  my  gun." 

He  laughed  with  lazy  enjoyment  of  the  reminiscence. 

"  Did— did  it  kill  him?"  inquired  Lyra. 

"  For  the  sake  of  society,  I  regret  to  say  it  didn't.  He  came 
to  after  a  bit,  and  didn't  seem  at  all  offended.  He  helped  me 
skin  the  bear  and  cook  some  of  the  ham,  and  was  gracious 
enough  to  join  me  at  dinner.  We  parted  very  good  friends, 
though  he  was  quite  forgetting  to  give  me  back  the  flask,  and 
was  walking  off  with  it,  until  I  reminded  him.  But  I  beg  your 
pardon!  I'm  like  the  fellow  in  Shakespeare,  who  was  so  fond 
of  bragging  about  his  exploits.  What  was  his  name?  oh, 
Othello.  He  used  to  spin  impossible  and  wonderful  yarns  to 
Desdemona." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

HE  made  the  comparison  innocently,  unintentionally  enough, 
and  Lyra  smiled  at  first,  then,  as  it  came  home  to  her,  a  blush 
rose  to  her  face.  He  did  not  see  it — he  had  lighted  his  pipe, 
and  was  smoking  in  happy  ignorance.  Though  he  did  not 
know  it,  he  had  told  the  story  very  well  and  simply,  and  ho 
had,  all  unwittingly,  presented  to  her  another  picture  of  him- 
self to  add  to  the  gallery  of  her  memory.  It  seemed  to  her 
wonderful  that  he  who  had  gone  through  so  much,  had  courted 
peril  and  danger  in  wild  and  distant  countries,  should  be  con- 
tent to  lie  there  at  her  feet  and  smoke  with  half-closed  eyes. 

"  Well,"  he  said  presently,  "  this  is  very  delightful,  but  it 
isn't  business.  We've  got  to  fill  that  basket  between  us,  yon 
know." 

"  I  am  quite  ready,"  she  said,  springing  up. 


58  ONCE  IN  A  LIFE; 

"I  think  I'll  change  your  fly,"  he  said.  "The  MarcTj 
brown  fly  is  on  the  water.  Do  you  see  them?  those  little  fel- 
lows with  the  long  tails.  Look;  here's  an  imitation  one.  Now, 
I'll  show  you  how  to  put  it  on,  so  that  you  may  do  it  when  I'm 
not  here." 

It  is  easy  enough  to  put  a  fly  on  the  line — when  you  know 
how — but  you  want  showing,  and  in  being  shown  your  hand 
and  your  head  must  of  necessity  be  brought  very  close  to  your 
instructor's.  Lyra  was  intent  upon  her  lesson,  and  perhaps — 
perhaps  she  did  not  notice  that  her  hair  now  and  again  touched 
his  cheek,  that  her  hands  and  his  were  now  and  again  in  close 
contact;  but  Dane  Armitage  came  out  of  the  lesson  with  a 
slightly  heightened  color,  and  as  she  turned  away  with  her  rod, 
and  an  "  oh,  thank  you,  thank  you!  I  shall  not  forget,"  his 
conscience — that  troublesome  conscience  of  his — smote  him, 
and  he  registered  a  vow  that  he  would  not  risk  the  touch  of 
her  hands  again. 

But  the  force  of  circumstances  was  against  him. 

He  kept  away  from  her,  behind  her,  for  some  time;  but  he 
watched  her,  and  could  see  that  she  was  catching  a  trout  now 
and  again.  He  caught  some  too,  but  his  eyes  were  more  intent 
upon  her  than  his  fly. 

Presently  he  noticed  that  she  had  ceased  fishing,  and  was 
standing  looking  at  the  water  in  an  absent  kind  of  way. 

He  strode  up  to  her. 

"  Tired?"  he  said. 

"  I  am  a  little,  I  think,"  she  said,  with  an  apologetic 
glance.  "  My  arm  aches,  only  just  a  little.  I  can't  under- 
stand it,  this  rod  is  so  light." 

"  Give  it  to  me,"  he  said.  "  Halloo,  you've  lost  your  fly; 
the  line's  broken;  a  fish  must  have  run  off  with  it.  I  know 
that  kind  of  ache  in  the  arm.  You  walk  beside  me,  or  will 
you  sit  down?  I  don't  care  whether  I  fish  or  not." 

"  No,  no,"  she  said,  eagerly.  "  Please  go  on,  and  I  will 
Tratch  you.  I  shall  learn  a  great  deal  that  way. " 

"  How  keen  you  are,"  he  said,  gratefully,  admiringly.  "It's 
awfully  good  of  you."  As  he  spoke  he  thought  that  she  looked 
rather  pale.  "  You  are  sure  you  would  rather  not  rest?" 

"  Quite,"  she  said.     "  Please  go  on." 

He  fished  on,  and  she  walked  beside  him.  The  clouds 
came  up  again,  and,  to  his  satisfaction,  it  began  to  rain;  to 
his  satisfaction,  because,  for  some  unaccountable  reason,  Mas- 
ter Trout  will  take  the  fly  more  readily  when  it  rains.  Dane 
caught  them  continually,  and,  in  the  true  sportsman's  absence 
of  mind,  forgot  that  his  companion  was  getting  wet.  Who 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  59 

cares  in  the  hunting-field  whether  the  ladies  are  getting  wet, 
or  otherwise  coming  to  grief?  Who  of  us,  alas!  when  the 
yacht  is  going  well  before  the  wind,  cares  whether  the  ladies 
on  board  are  sick  or  well?  Man  is  a  selfish  animal.  The 
sporting  man — well,  the  least  said  the  soonest  mended. 

But  presently  Dane  woke  up  to  the  fact  that  it  was  raining 
hard,  and  that  the  girl  beside  him  had  no  mackintosh,  and,  of 
course,  no  umbrella. 

"  Good  gracious!"  he  exclaimed,  dropping  his  rod.  "  What 
a  selfish  brute  I  am!  You  are  getting  wet  all  this  time." 

"  Am  I?   I  did  not  know  it — notice  it/'  she  said,  carelessly. 

"  It  does  not  matter." 

"  Oh,  doesn't  it?"  he  said,  with  the  irony  of  self-reproach. 

He  looked  round  for  shelter  for  her,  but  there  was  absolutely 
none  save  an  old  thorn  bush. 

"  Come  along,"  he  said,  making  for  it.  "  That  will  shelter 
you  a  little.  I  wouldn't  have  you  wet  for  worlds.  Why,  what 
would  Mr.  Chester  say,  and  rightly?  It  would  be  a  long  time 
before  he  trusted  you  out  with  me  again." 

"  It  isn't  of  the  least  consequence,"  repeated  Lyra.  "  I 
am  wet  most  days  when  it  rains;  and  you  know  it  rains  here 
for  months  at  a  time  sometimes." 

"  Does  it?  Cheerful  climate.  Anyway,  you  are  not  going 
to  get  wet  through  to-day." 

They  had  reached  the  thorn  bush,  and  he  stood  in  front  of 
her  to  protect  her  from  the  drifting  rain;  but  he  saw  that  it 
was  poor  protection,  and  he  took  off  his  thick  Norfolk  jacket 
of  Harris  tweed. 

"  Put  this  over  your  shoulders,"  he  said,  in  a  matter-of- 
fact  way. 

Lyra  drew  back. 

"  Why,  you  would  get  wet  through!"  she  said,  almost  in- 
dignantly. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Besides,  it  wouldn't  matter.  I  was  wet 
yesterday,  you  know" — his  voice  sunk  a  little — "  and  I  didn't 
catch  cold,  as  you  see.  The  rain  can't  hurt  me;"  he  touched 
his  shirt  sleeve.  "  Flannel — see?" 

He  put  the  coat  over  her  shoulders,  but  she  made  a  gesture 
of  refusal. 

"  Please  put  in  on  again.     I  will  not  have  it,"  she  said. 

He  laughed  with  a  boyish  maliciousness. 

"  I'll  pitch  it  in  the  river  if  you  don't  let  it  stop  where  it 
is!"  he  declared. 

Lyra  could  not  help  laughing,  though  her  brows  were  drawn 
straight  with  determination. 


<JfO  ONCE    IK    A    LIFE. 

"  Oh,  but  that  is  absurd — foolish!"  she  remonstrated. 

"  I  dare  say.  I  don't  care.  Come,  you  pretended  to  6e 
Tery  grateful  to  me  just  now — " 

"  Pretended!" 

"  Well,  were  grateful.     Show  it  by  being  obedient.*' 

She  bit  her  lip,  but  he  had  his  way,  and  the  warm  coat 
sheltered  her. 

"  We  are  in  for  a  biggish  storm,"  he  said,  looking  up  at  the 
sky.  "  What  an  idiot  I  was  to  forget  that  this  is  Devonshire, 
and  not  bring  a  mackintosh!  My  mackintosh  would  have  cov- 
ered you  from  head  to  foot." 

"  I  wish  you  had  brought  it,"  she  said.  "  You  would  have 
kept  your  coat  then." 

She  put  up  her  hand  to  take  it  off,  and  he  put  up  his  and 
took  her  arm  to  prevent  her;  as  he  did  so,  she  uttered  a  cry 
of  pain. 

His  hand  dropped,  and  he  looked  at  her  aghast. 

"  Oh,  I  hurt  you!"  he  said  in  a  voice  of  remorse. 

'*  No,  no!"  she  faltered.     "  Indeed  you  did  not." 

"  But  I  did — I  must  hate  done.  What  a  rough,  clumsy 
brute  I  am!" 

She  bit  her  lip  as  if  to  force  herself  to  silence,  but  his  re- 
morse and  penitence  constrained  her  to  speak. 

"  It — it  is  nothing,"  she  said,  carelessly — too  carelessly; 
"  but  the  fly— the  hook." 

"  The  fly — the  hook?  Well,"  he  demanded,  anxiously, 
"  what  about  it?" 

She  held  out  her  arm,  then  put  it  behind  her  and  laughed. 

"  I  caught  it  hi  the  sleeve  of  my  dress,  and — and  in  trying 
to  get  it  out  I've  run  it  into  my  arm." 

"  Good  heavens!"  he  exclaimed;  "  and  I've  caught  hold  of 
it  and — and — sent  it  in  further!  Please  let  me  look." 

She  extended  her  arm  again,  and  he  saw  that  the  hook  of 
the  fly  had  gone  above  the  barb  through  the  delicate  skin. 
Now,  when  this  is  the  case,  you  can  not  once  in  a  hundred 
tunes  pull  the  hook  out.  It  is  a  small  matter,  just  a  tiny 
piece  of  bent  steel,  but  there  it  is,  fast  and  firm ;  the  more  you 
try  to  extract  it,  the  more  if  sticks,  and  every  time  you  touch 
it,  the  more  pain  you  inflict. 

Dane  knew  that  there  was  only  one  way  of  getting  that  fly 
out,  and  at  the  thought  his  face  paled  beneath  its  tan. 

"  It's  of  no  consequence;  it  will  come  out  presently,"  she 
said.  "  I  will  get  Mary  to  pull  it  out  when  I  get  home.  It  is 
clearing  up  now;  shall  we  go  on?  Take  jour  coat,  please/' 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  61 

"  Stop!  r  he  said,  looking  at  her  and  still  holding  her  hand. 
"  Neither  Mary  nor  any  one  else  can  pull  that  hook  out.'* 

She  opened  her  lovely  eyes  at  him. 

"No?  Why?  I  couldn't  just  now,  but  I  thought  that  was 
because  I  only  had  the  left  hand  to  do  it  with." 

"  No/'  he  said;  "it  is  because  the  barb  on  the  hook  has 
gone  in.  Miss  Chester — I — I  shall  have  to  cut  it  out." 

He  stood  with  compressed  lips  and  a  look  on  his  face  as  if 
he  had  said,  "  I  must  cut  off  your  arm." 

Lyra  laughed  easily. 

"  Eeally?" 

"  Yes,"  he  said;  "  and — and  I  am  afraid  I  shall  hurt  you." 

She  laughed  as  easily  as  before. 

"  Not  much,  I  should  think,"  she  said.  "  Such  a  little  cut 
as  it  must  be  for  such  a  tiny  hook." 

"  You  don't  mind  pain?"  he  asked. 

"  Not  such  a  little  as  that  would  be,"  she  said.  "  Can  I 
not  cut  it  out  myself?  The  trouble  I  have  been  to  you  this 
morning!" 

"  You  can  not,"  he  said.  "  What  an  idiot  I  was  not  to 
warn  you!  It's  my  fault." 

"  That  I  was  so  clumsy  as  to  catch  the  hook  in  my  arm?" 
she  said.  "  It  is  a  wonder  that  I  have  not  caught  you  with  it." 

"  Would  to  Heaven  you  had,  instead  of  yourself;  that 
wouldn't  have  mattered!"  he  rejoined.  As  he  spoke  he  took 
the  scissors  out  of  the  fly-book  in  his  jacket  pocket.  "  I  must 
cut  the  sleeve,"  he  said. 

"  That's  of  no  consequence,"  she  said,  carelessly. 

He  cut  a  square  piece  out,  and  revealed  a  patch  of  the  white 
arm  with  the  malicious  little  hook  sticking  in  it. 

"  Look  another  way/'  he  said,  with  a  queer  huskiness  in  his 
voice  as  he  opened  his  pen-knife. 

Lyra  obeyed  for  a  moment,  but  naturally  her  eyes  turned 
to  the  hook  again;  and  then  she  saw  that  his  face  had  turned 
pale,  though  his  hands  were  as  steady  as  a  rock.  She  noticed, 
too,  how  softly,  how  tenderly  he  held  her  arm — this  great 
strong  man  who  had  faced,  courted  death  in  strange  lands. 

"  Are  you  afraid,"  she  asked,  with  a  smile — "  afraid  of  my 
calling  out?  I  shall  not,  I  promise  you." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  still  huskily;  "  I  am  afraid  of  hurting  you, 
and  yet  I  must  do  it,  for  Mary  would  hurt  you  more  than  I 
shall." 

She  laughed. 

"  Please  go  on,"  she  said.     e{  It  is  such  a  trifle." 

"  Not  to  me,"  he  muttered*  below  his  breath,  and  with  a 


CH  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

palpitation  at  th.9  heart.  He  would  have  done  much,  suffered 
much  to  gain  a  moment's  happiness,  transient  pleasure,  for 
this  innocent  girl;  and  now  he  was  fated  to  hurt  her — hurt 
her  in  cold  blood,  with  the  lovely  eyes  looking  on. 

He  set  his  teeth  hard,  and  cut  out  the  hook.  He  dared  not 
look  up  at  her,  lest  she  should  see  in  his  eyes  the  emotion,  the 
passionate  emotion  that  raged  within  him. 

It  was  a  tiny  cut,  and  she  did  not  cry  out  or  wince  even, 
though,  for  all  its  srnallness,  the  operation  was  a  painful  one. 

His  hand  closed  gently,  tenderly  over  the  miniature  wound, 
and  he  raised  his  eyes. 

Tb.ey  must  have  told  the  secret  that  was  throbbing  through 
his  heart;  they  must  have  said  that  which  he  kept  from  utter- 
ing with  his  lips  at  a  cost  almost  insupportable.  There  must 
have  been,  "  I  love  you!  I  love  you!"  in  the  intense  gaze  of 
his  eyes,  for  Lyra  caught  her  breath  and  drew  back  slightly, 
very  slightly,  and  the  color  left  her  face. 

"  I  have  hurt  you,  Lyra!"  he  exclaimed,  almost  hoarsely. 
"  Lyra — dearest!  I  have  hurt  you,  I  who  love  you!  Love 
you!" 

She  drew  back  from  him,  put  out  her  hand  as  if  to  keep 
him — his  almost  fiercely  passionate  avowal — away  from  her. 

She  was  startled,  frightened,  and  yet — ah,  was  it  fear  only 
that  made  her  heart  throb  with  a  sensation  that  was  almost 
painful? 

He  caught  her  hand  and  pressed  it  against  his  heart.  All 
the  passion  of  a  strong  man  caught  in  the  toils  of  a  love  as 
strong  as  himself  had  got  possession  of  him,  and  yet  the  caress, 
for  caress  it  was — was  gentle,  reverential. 

"  Lyra  " — his  voice  sounded  strangely  in  his  own  ears — "  I 
love  you!  Yes,  I  know — I  know!  I  ought  not  to  say  it  here, 
now,  but — but  [  can  not  help  myself!  Do  you  hear?  I  love 
you!  Are  you  angry?  Forgive  me,  I  would  rather  die  than 
frighten  you — but  to  have  hurt  you  when  I  love  you  so  dearly, 
so  dearly — " 

He  stopped  suddenly.  The  coat  had  dropped  from  her 
shoulders  as  she  stood  with  her  hands  pressing  against  her 
bosom  to  still  the  beating  of  her  heart,  stood  panting  as  if  for 
breath.  The  coat  slipped,  and  as  it  slipped,  something  white 
fell  from  the  pocket,  and  dropped  on  the  ground  between 
them.  It  was  an  unopened  letter,  and  it  fell  with  the  address 
upward. 

Her  eyes  followed  it,  and  his  followed  hers.  He  started,  and 
the  blood  rushed  to  his  face,  then  left  it,  and  left  it  absolutely 
Vhite. 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  63 

She  glanced  from  the  letter  to  his  face,  and  then  to  the  letter 
again.  At  that  moment — why,  she  knew  not — it  seemed  as  if 
the  innocent-looking  thing  had  grown  into  a  sheet  of  snow, 
and  reared  itself  between  her  heart  and  his — an  impassable 
barrier. 

She  pointed  to  it;  she  could  not  speak.  He  stood  panting 
as  she  had  panted;  then,  like  a  man  suddenly  dazed,  he 
stooped  and  picked  up  the  letter,  and  mechanically,  with  ab- 
solute unconsciousness,  opened  it,  unfolded  the  sheet  of  paper, 
and  as  mechanically  read  the  contents. 

"  DEAR  DANE, — Your  father  has  the  gout  in  his  hand,  and 
asks  me  to  write  and  beg  you  to  come  home.  I  don't  add  my 
entreaties,  because  it  is  evident  from  your  not  having  answered 
my  last  two  letters  that  you  have  forgotten  Your 

"  THEODOSIA." 

That  was  all.  But  it  was  as  a  voice  from  the  thunderous 
sky.  It  was  the  voice  which  bid  him  choose  between  love  and 
honor. 

He  stood  with  the  letter  in  his  hand,  the  cold  sweat  breaking 
ou.t  upon  his  brow. 

"  Your  Theodosia!" 

His  eyes  at  last  sought  hers.  She  stood  as  if  turned  to  stone. 

Her  woman's  wit  had  guessed  that  something  had  come  be- 
tween them.  The  barrier  of  snow  was  freezing  her  heart. 

He  stretched  out  his  hand,  then  let  it  drop  to  his  side,  and 
his  head  hung  like  that  of  a  man  suddenly  overwhelmed  with 
shame. 

"  Lyra!"  he  said,  hoarsely,  almost  inaudibly — "  Lyra — for- 
get— forgive!  I —  No,  I  can  not  lose  you — I  can  not!" 

He  made  a  movement  toward  her;  but  she  put  out  her  hands. 

"  No!  no!"  she  panted.     "  Let— me— go!" 

His  hands,  which  he  had  raised  to  seize  hers,  dropped  to  hip 
side,  and  he  turned  away  with  a  groan,  as  if  he  could  not  dare 
to  gaze  upon  her. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  looking  at  him;  then,  with  a 
shiver,  as  if  the  summer  breeze  had  been  charged  with  ice,  she 
turned  and  left  him. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

LTKA  left  Dane  standing  as  if  turned  to  stone,  and  with 
unsteady,  uncertain  steps  went  down  the  valley  toward  home. 

Her  heart  beat  wildly  one  moment,  and  the  next  seemed  to 
stop  altogether. 


64  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

A  great  overwhelming  sense  of  misery  swept  through  her, 
alternated  by  a  strange  feeling  of  wonder  that  was  an  ecstasy 
half  of  pain,  half  of  joy. 

She  had  read  of  love  often,  but  it  might  almost  be  said  that, 
until  Dane  had  uttered  the  word  with  all  the  eloquence  of  pas- 
sion, she  had  never  heard  it  spoken. 

His  declaration  had  come  upon  her  with  the  suddenness  of 
a  flash  of  lightning.  And  yet,  sudden  as  it  was,  she  under- 
stood it,  and  knew  that  he  really  loved  her  and  that  she  re- 
turned his  love. 

As  he  spoke  she  learned  suddenly,  as  in  another  lightning 
flash,  why  the  sunlight  had  seemed  to  fade  when  he  left  her 
yesterday;  why  she  had  lain  awake  thinking  of  him;  why  the 
sight  of  him  at  the  gate  had  made  the  heart  within  her  leap 
with  a  strange,  bewildering  joy. 

Love,  this  love  of  which  she  had  read  so  much,  was  a  real 
thing,  then;  and  it  had  come  to  her,  swept  down  upon  her  like 
an  angel  with  widespreading  wings,  and  soared  with  her  into 
the  highest  heavens. 

And  yet  she  had  understood  quite  as  fully  that  something 
had  come  between  her  and  Dane,  that  though  he  loved  her 
and  she  loved  him,  that  letter  which  had  dropped  between 
them  had  contained  the  death  sentence  of  their  happiness.  His 
faltering,  heart-broken  words  had  told  her  that;  and  so  she 
hurried  through  the  undergrowth,  scarcely  knowing  where  she 
was  going,  and  heedless  of  the  brambles  that  caught  at  her  as 
if  trying  to  detain  her  and  turn  her  back.  She  felt  as  if  she 
had  left  not  only  her  heart,  but  her  life's  blood  behind,  there 
where  Dane  stood  with  clinched  hands  and  drooping  head. 

It  is  said  that  to  every  man  and  woman  is  given  a  soul  for 
which  a  mate  is  specially  created,  that  each  human  soul  goes 
through  the  world  seeking  this  mate.  Sometimes  it  finds  it 
— sometimes  only,  and  ah!  how  rarely — and  then  there  is  joy 
and  happiness  unspeakable  for  those  two  fortunate  souls;  but 
too  often  the  desolate  spirit  wanders  over  the  earth,  seeking  the 
mate  it  shall  never  find,  doomed,  perhaps,  to  be  tied  to  some 
spirit  with  whom  it  has  nothing  in  common,  and  with  whom  it 
must  lead  a  life  of  miserable  discord,  or  fated  to  wander 
through  the  realms  of  space  sobbing  and  wailing,  a  sad  and 
unsatisfied  and  restless  ghost,  unloving  and  unloved. 

Surely  these  two  spirits,  Dane's  and  Lyra's,  had  found  each 
other.  They  were  within  sight  of  love's  paradise,  their  locked 
hands  were  touching  the  gate,  their  feet  were  pressing  the 
threshold,  when  lo!  they  had  been  thrust  forth,  the  gates  had 


OKCE    IN    A    LIFE.  65 

been  clanged  in  their  faces,  and  they  were  separated,  to  wan 
der  divided  and  miserable. 

As  Lyra  made  her  way  through  the  wood,  she  tried  to  re- 
alize all  that  had  happened  to  her.  Dane's  passionate  words 
rang  in  her  ears  as  if  they  would  ring  there  forever.  Love, 
love;  it  was  all  love!  She  could  feel  his  hands  clasping  hers 
still,  could  feel  his  eyes  piercing  through  hers  into  the  inner- 
most recesses  of  her  heart.  He  loved  her,  and  yet  she  should 
never  see  him  again.  Something  had  come  between  them,  had 
taken  him  from  her  forever — forever! 

She  uttered  the  words  which  have  fallen  from  so  many  de- 
spairing lips,  and  clasped  her  hands  over  her  eyes.  It  seemed 
as  if  a  cloud  had  come  over  the  heavens,  and  blocked  out  the 
sun  and  light. 

She  stopped,  exhausted,  and  leaned  against  a  tree,  her 
hands  pressed  to  her  bosom  as  if  to  still  the  agony  in  her  that 
racked  it.  As  she  stood  thus,  lost  to  all  sense  of  sight  and 
hearing,  the  bent  figure  of  Griffith  came  along  the  narrow 
path.  He  had  his  bill-hook  in  his  hand  and  a  bundle  of  wood 
on  his  bent  back.  As  he  saw  Lyra  he  stopped,  dropped  tha 
wood,  and  limped  to  her  side. 

"  Miss  Lyra!'*  he  exclaimed,  hoarsely.  "  What  is  it?  What 
is  the  matter?" 

She  turned  her  aching  eyes  upon  him,  as  if  she  did  not  see 
or  recognize  him,  and  at  the  agony  in  her  face  he  groaned 
with  mingled  pain  and  rage. 

"  What  is  it — what  is  it?"  he  said  in  his  guttural  voice,  and 
he  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it.  "  Tell  me — tell  me,  Miss 
Lyra,  dear;  tell  me,  dearie." 

The  sound  of  his  rough  voice,  the  touch  of  his  hand,  aroused 
her.  With  a  long,  painful  sigh  she  raised  her  head  and  looked 
away  from  him. 

"  Nothing  is  the  matter,  Griffith,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  from 
which  all  the  brightness  and  joy  had  vanished.  "  I — I  have 
been  a  long  way,  and — and  am  overtired." 

His  grasp  of  her  hand  grew  tighter. 

"  A  long  way,"  he  said — "  only  to  the  top  of  the  valley? 
That  shouldn't  have  tired  you.  Where — where  is  the  gentle- 
man that  went  with  you?  He  was  with  you  till  just  now." 

He  put  the  question  with  a  kind  of  subdued  ferocity,  and 
gripped  at  her  hand. 

Her  face  grew  paler,  if  possible,  and  her  lips  quivered. 

"  He  has  gone,"  she  said;  and  the  full  significance  of  the 
Words  smote  her  with  a  fresh  pang. 

"  Gone,"  he  echoed,  hoarsely—"  and  left  you  to  come  homo 


60  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

alone?  Look;  your  dress  is  torn  by  the  brambles.  You  are 
white  and  unhappy.  Has  he  been  saying  anything  to  trouble 
you?  Tell  me,  Miss  Lyra,  dear?" 

The  crimson  burned  in  her  face  for  a  moment,  then  left  it 
pale  again. 

"No — no,"  she  faltered,  brokenly;  "he  has  said  nothing. 
It  does  not  matter.  He  has  gone;  he  will  not  come  back. 
We — we  shall  not  see  him  again." 

His  small,  glittering  eyes  scanned  her  face  keenly. 

"  Are  you  telling  me  the  truth — the  whole  truth,  Miss  Lyra?" 
he  said,  hoarsely.  "If  he  has  said  anything  to  trouble  you 
— if  he — "  He  paused,  with  clinched  teeth,  then  went  on  in 
a  low,  hoarse  voice:  "  Miss  Lyra,  you  won't  keep  anything 
from  me?  It's  me,  old  Griffith,  that  asks  you.  You'll  tell 
me,  Miss  Lyra,  dearie.  Years  ago,  when  you  were  a  little 
child,  your  mother  left  you.  I  was  with  her  when  she  died. 
Almost  her  last  words  were:  '  Griffith,  you'll  take  care  of  my 
little  one?'  His  voice  gave  way,  but  he  mastered  it,  and  went 
on:  "  She  knew — your  mother — that  the  master  would  be  too 
broken  to  take  care  of  you.  She  knew  that  you  would  want 
some  one  else — some  one  that  would  always  watch  over  you. 
I  promised  her,  Miss  Lyra,  dear,  and — and  I've  kept  my 
promise.  Look  back,  dearie,  and  tell  me  if  you  can  remem- 
ber any  time  in  your  young  life  when  you  can  not  remember 
old  Griffith." 

Lyra  could  not  speak,  but  pressed  his  hand. 

"  When  you  were  ill  like  other  children,  it  was  for  me, 
and  not  your  nurse,  that  you  used  to  cry.  I've  carried  you  in 
these  arms  for  hours — ay,  almost  for  days.  I've  watched  you 
grow  up,  year  by  year,  from  a  tiny  mite  to  a  beautiful  woman, 
and  there  is  not  a  wish  of  your  heart  that  I  haven't  known. 
No  dog  ever  loved  its  master  as  I've  loved  you.  Miss  Lyra, 
dear,  I'd  lay  down  my  life  for  you,  and  be  glad  to  do  it!" 

She  pressed  his  hand  again.  His  devotion,  though  it  could 
not  remove  the  aching  in  her  young  heart,  soothed  it. 

"I  know,  I  know,  dear  Griffith,"  she  murmured,  almost 
inaudibly. 

"  I've  kept  my  oath,  for  it  was  an  oath,  and  I  mean  to 
keep  it  till  some  one  comes  to  take  you  from  me,  to  win  your 
heart  away  and  teach  you  to  forget  me.  I'll  stand  between 
you  and  trouble,  Miss  Lyra,  if  you'll  let  me.  Tell  me  what 
has  happened." 

"  Nothing,  nothing,"  she  faltered. 


His  rugged  brows  darkened  above  his  sharp  eyes. 
"  Something  has  happened,"  he  said,  doggedly. 


If  I 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  67 

thought  *hat  gentleman  had  said  anything  to  trouble  you  like 
this—" 

He  stopped,  dropped  her  hand,  and  half  turned,  as  if  he 
were  going  in  search  of  Dane.  She  caught  his  arm  and  held 
him. 

"  No,  no,  Griffith,  he  has  said  nothing.  It  is  because  he  is 
too  good  and  noble — "  She  stopped.  "  Stop,  Griffith,  I — I 
bid  you.  I  am  unhappy,  but — but  it  is  not  his  fault." 

"You  are  sure?"  he  demanded,  almost  fiercely. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  with  a  heavy  sigh;  "it  is  not  his  fault. 
You — you  must  not  harbor  anger  against  him,  must  not 
threaten  him — for  you  did  threaten  him,  Griffith. " 

"  Yes,"  he  assented,  with  sullen  anger.  "  I'd  threaten  any 
one  that  would  harm  you  or  make  you  unhappy,  Miss  Lyra, 
dear.  I'd — "  He  stopped,  but  his  clinched  hand  and  glitter- 
ing eye  finished  the  sentence  graphically  enough.  ' '  The  faith- 
ful dog  bites  as  well  as  barks  when  it  sees  its  mistress  at- 
tacked." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  said,  soothingly,  "  I  know,  Griffith;  but 
no  one  has  attacked  me.  Do  not  say  any  more.  Let  us  go 
home.  I  am  very,  very  tired." 

Her  head  sunk,  and  she  sighed  again. 

"  Lean  on  me;  put  your  hand  on  my  shoulder,  Miss  Lyra," 
he  murmured,  huskily.  "  Don't  be  afraid.  Why,  those  arms 
are  strong  enough  to  carry  you  still,  old  as  I  am." 

They  went  through  the  woods  thus,  Lyra  pale  and  preoccu- 
pied, the  hunchback  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  his 
gnarled  lips  emitting  a  kind  of  hoarse  snarl  at  intervals,  and 
had  reached  the  clearing  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff,  when  sud- 
denly a  groan  was  heard  by  both  of  them.  Lyra  started,  re- 
moved her  hand,  and  uttered  a  faint  cry. 

"  What  was  that?  Did  you  hear  it,  Griffith?"  she  fal- 
tered. Instantly  her  fears  flew  to  Dane.  Could  it  have  been 
he  who  had  groaned?  "  Oh,  what  was  it,  Griffith?"  she 
asked,  in  an  agony. 

"  Hush!  hush!  Miss  Lyra,"  he  said,  almost  imperatively; 
and  he  listened  with  his  great  head  on  one  side. 

The  groan  came  again,  and  Lyra  uttered  another  cry. 

"  There,  there!    You  must  have  heard  it,  Griffith!" 

"  Yes,  I  heard,"  he  said,  calmly.  "  Don't  be  frightened, 
dearie.  It  came  from  the  hollow  of  the  cliff.  Stay  here  while 
I  go  and  see." 

"  No,  no,"  she  said;  "  I  will  come  too." 

A  mental  vision  of  Dane  in  mortal  peril  rose  before  her. 

Griffith,  with  his  peculiar  gait — a  mixture  of  limp,  spring 


68  ONCE    US    A    LIFE. 

and  shamble— hurried  in  the  direction  of  the  sound,  and  Lyra 
followed  closed  behind  him. 

Where  the  wood  ended  in  a  waste  of  grass-grown  sand,  the 
range  of  cliffs,  or  downs,  commenced.  The  sand,  blown  by 
the  winds,  was  over  them  all.  They  were  soft  and  graduating 
in  places,  but  in  others  Avere  steep  and  precipitous.  As  Lyra 
and  Griffith  hurried  to  the  foot  of  these  cliffs,  the  groan  which 
had  alarmed  her  sounded  again. 

Griffith's  sense  of  sight  and  hearing  were  as  keen  and  true 
as  an  Indian's,  and  he  went  straight  for  a  clump  of  sand- 
sprinkled  bushes  from  whence  the  cry  of  distress  had  pro- 
ceeded. Lyra  kept  close  behind  him,  and  they  both  saw  the 
figure  of  a  man,  half  lying,  half  sitting,  among  the  furze. 

He  was  a  fair  young  man,  with  light  hair  and  pale-blue  eyes, 
and  he  was'  very  pale  and  wof  ul -looking.  It  was  Mr.  Chandos 
Armitage,  with  his  Bond  Street  clothes  torn  and  covered  with 
sand,  and  his  delicate  white  hands  scratched  and  bleeding. 

At  sight  of  Lyra  and  Griffith  he  uttered  a  doleful  "  Help!" 
and  dropped  back  amid  the  furze.  Griffith  bent  over  him. 

"  What  is  the  matter?"  he  muttered,  in  his  rough,  grating 
voice. 

Lyra  stood  looking  over  his  shoulder,  her  pale  face  expres- 
sive of  apprehension — and,  it  must  be  said,  relief;  for  it  was 
not — thank  Heaven! — it  was  not  the  beloved  one — it  was  not 
Dane  Annitage. 

Mr.  Chandos  opened  his  eyes  and  groaned  faintly. 

"  I've  had  an  accident,"  he  murmured,  in  acute  accents  of 
profound  self-pity.  "  I've  fallen  over  the  cliff  and  broken  my 
leg,  I'm  afraid.  Oh!" 

"  Fallen  over  the  cliff!"  grunted  Griffith.     "  Let  me  see." 

"  Don't  touch  me!"  wailed  the  Honorable  Chandos. 

"Humph!"  grunted  Griffith,  "you'll  have  to  be  touched, 
sooner  or  later,  if  you're  to  get  away  from  here.  Let  ine  see. 
Which  leg  is  it?" 

"  Oh,  take  care,  Griffith,"  murmured  Lyra,  gently. 

Mr.  Chandos  opened  his  eyes  again,  and  as  they  rested  on 
her  lovely  face  their  pale-blue  light  grew  warmer  and  more 
admiring;  but  only  for  a  moemnt,  for  his  pain  absorbed  all  his 
attention. 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear  lady,"  he  said,  sweetly;  "  this  is  the 
leg,  my  good  man.  I'm  afraid  it  is  broken  in  several  places. " 

Griffith  knelt  down  and  examined  the  wounded  member,  Mr. 
Chandos  watching  with  nervous  apprehension. 

"  It  isn't  broken/'  said  Griffith,  after  a  moment  or 


ONCE    Df    A    LIFE.  69 

"  You've  sprained  your  ankle,  I  think.     Wait,  I'll  take  off 
your  boot." 

"  No,  no!"  responded  Mr.  Chandos,  in  nervous  terror.  "  I 
must  have  a  surgeon;  you'll  hurt  me." 

Griffith  grunted  grimly. 

"  Not  I.     Sit  still,  sir;  I'll  soon  see  what's  the  matter." 

He  took  out  a  woodman's  knife,  at  sight  of  which  the  ele- 
gant Mr.  Chandos  shuddered,  cut  the  laces  of  the  boot,  and 
removed  it. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  it's  a  sprain;  there's  no  bones  broken." 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  can  know;  you're  not  a  surgeon," 
said  Mr.  Chandos,  querulously.  "  It's  painful  enough  for 
half  a  dozen  fractures." 

"  Very  like,"  said  Griffith,  philosophically;  "  but  there's  no 
bones  broken,  all  the  same.  How  did  you  do  it?" 

Mr.  Chandos  leaned  on  one  elbow,  turned  his  blue  eyes  on 
the  cliff,  and  then  on  Lyra. 

•'  I  was  standing  up  there  on  the  edge  of  the  eliff,  admiring 
the  peculiarly  mystic  light  on  yonder  hill,  when  the  ground 
gave  way  beneath  me,  and  I  was  precipitated  where  you  see 
me,"  he  wound  up,  rather  prosaically. 

Griffith  grunted. 

"  And  didn't  you  know  any  better  than  to  stand  on  the 
edge  of  a  sand-hill?"  he  said.  "  You'll  be  more  knowing  for 
the  future.  You've  had  a  fall  and  sprained  your  ankle,  that's 
all." 

"  That's  all,"  retorted  Mr.  Chandos,  who  thought  that  it 
was  a  very  great  deal;  "  but  I  can't  walk.  I've  tried  to  stand 
several  times,  without  success.  You  will  not  desert  me?" 

He  extended  his  pretty  hand  to  Lyra  with  a  charmingly 
pathetic  gesture. 

She  drew  back,  for  the  voice,  the  gesture,  the  manner  of  the 
man  repelled  her,  and  it  was  Griffith  who  responded. 

"  Oh,  we  won't  desert  you,  as  you  call  it.  I'll  go  and  gee 
something  to  carry  you  on." 

"  Let  me,"  said  Lyra,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  No,"  said  Griffith,  almost  peremptorily.  *'  You'd  run 
all  the  way  to  the  cottage  and  back,  I  know,  and  you're  tired. 
You  stay  here,  Miss  Lyra.  I  sha'n't  be  long.  You'd  better 
keep  your  foot  still,"  he  added  to  Mr.  Chandos,  curtly,  as  he 
limped  away. 

Lyra,  left  alone  with  the  disabled  man,  stood  looking  sea- 
ward. She  felt  dazed  still;  her  heart  was  aching  with  a  dull, 
gnawing  pain.  It  is  to  be  feared  that  she  did  not  give  much 
thought  to  the  interesting  sufferer. 


70  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

But  this  left  Mr.  Chandos  free  to  gaze  upon  her  beautiful 
face,  and  he  did  so  to  the  fullest  extent;  so  fully  that  for  the 
moment  he  forgot  his  broken  bones,  or  sprain,  and  was  lost  in 
intense  admiration  of  her  loveliness. 

Who  was  she,  and  whence  did  she  come? 

He  thought  he  had  never  seen  a  more  lovely,  more  interest- 
ing face;  for  her  pallor,  the  sad  expression  in  her  eyes,  lent 
her  an  additional  charm  in  Mr.  Chandos's  opinion. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  am  detaining  you  and  giving  you  a  great 
deal  of  trouble,"  he  said,  in  his"  sweetest  voice,  with  the 
"  flute  stop  "  well  on. 

Lyra  started  slightly  and  turned  to  him. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said.     "  Are  you  in  much  pain?" 

She  put  the  question  with  a  tone  of  self-reproach.  She  had, 
indeed,  almost  forgotten  him. 

"  Yes,"  he  sighed.  Mr.  Chandos  would  have  made  an  out- 
cry over  a  pin-prick,  and  was  not  likely  to  make  light  of  a 
sprain.  "  Yes,"  he  murmured,  "  the  pain  is  great;  but  pain 
has  its  consolations;  the  spirit  is  never  keener  or  more  en  rap- 
port with  beauty  than  when  it  is  stimulated  by  bodily  anguish. " 

He  made  this  remark  in  the  proper  esthetic  manner,  with 
the  "  flute  stop  "  in  his  voice  again,  and  with  a  sad  look  in  his 
pale-blue  eyes. 

Lyra  looked  at  him  with  a  drear  and  weary  questioning,  and 
Mr.  Chandos's  gaze  grew  unsteady. 

"  I  allude  to  the  scenery — oh!"  his  foot  gave  him  a  twinge. 
"  It  is  indeed  beautiful.  Doesn't  it  remind  you  of  a  Canaletti 
or  a  Burne- Jones  ?  Oh ! — oh,  dear ! ' ' 

Lyra  continued  to  gaze  at  him. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  don't  understand,"  she  said. 

"  No?  You  are  not  acquainted  with  the  works  of  these — 
oh! — oh! — these  artists?  That  is  a  pity.  The  beautiful  should 
know  and  be  of  kin  with  the  beautiful." 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  Lyra  thought  for  the  moment  that 
the  wounded  man  was  either  insane  or  delirious. 

"  But,  pardon  me,  you  look  pale,"  said  Mr.  Chandos,  after 
a  pause.  "  I  fear  I  have  caused  you  some  alarm." 

A  faint  color  came  for  a  moment  into  Lyra's  face,  and  he 
looked  away  across  the  river. 

"  No,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.     "  I  am  not  frightened." 

"  Oh!"  murmured  Mr.  Chandos,  tenderly.  "It  is  the 
sympathy  of  your  womanhood  which  is — oh! — oh,  dear!  oh, 
dear! — emblematic  of  the  divine.  Without  sympathy,  true 
sympathy,  man  is — whew! — little  better  than  the  beasts  of  the 
field.  "Will  you  not  sit  down  and  rest?" 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  7i 

Lyra  shook  her  head.  She  was,  with  every  word  he  ut- 
tered, more  inclined  to  consider  him  a  harmless  lunatic. 

Mr.  Chandos  nursed  his  foot  for  some  moments  in  silence, 
then  he  said: 

"  Do  you  live  far  from  here?" 

"  No/'  said  Lyra.     "  Griffith  will  not  be  long—" 

"  Oh,  I  can  wait,  if  not  with  cheerfulness,  with  resigna- 
tion," he  murmured.  "  Pain  and  patience  seem  appropriate 
to  this  desolate  spot,  this  weird  and  impressive  scenery.  Do 
you — er — paint  ?' ' 

"•No,"  said  Lyra.  His  suave,  languishing  voice  grated  on 
her  and  irritated  her.  She  longed  with  a  longing  past  descVip- 
tion  to  be  in  her  own  room,  alone;  alone  to  think. 

"  That  is  a  pity,"  he  said.  "  I — er — am  an  humble  but 
devoted  servant  of  Art.  I  should  like  to  sketch  this  stretch  of 
sand,  these — phew! — oh! — oh,  dear! — mystic-looking  hills. 
They  would  make  an  exquisite  study  in  gray  and  chrome." 

Lyra  remained  silent.     How  much  longer  would  Griffith  be? 

"  If  you  do  not  paint,  you  are  a  musician,  I  am  sure — oh, 
dear!"  resumed  Mr.  Chandos. 

Lyra  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  I  can  not  play,"  she  said. 

"  In-deed!  It  seems  scarcely  credible.  Your  face — pardon 
me — is  that  of  the  Cecilian  type.  Cecilia  is  the  patron  saint 
of  music,  you  know.  But  you  sing;  indeed,  you  must  sing! 
Hah— oh!" 

Lyra  shook  her  head. 

"  Does  your  foot  pain  you  still?  Is  there  anything  I  can  do, 
get,  for  you?" 

"  I  fear  not,"  he  said,  in  the  tone  of  an  expiring  martyr.  . 

I  am  very  thirsty,  it  is  true,  but  I  fear  there  is  no  water — " 

"  I  will  get  you  some,"  she  said. 

She  ran  to  the  stream,  made  a  cup  of  a  large  fern  leaf,  and 
brought  it  to  him  carefully. 

"  Thanks,  thanks!"  he  sighed.  "  It  is  a  draught  from  the 
stream  of  Isis."  And  he  gazed  up  at  her  with  a  sentimental, 
languishing  air.  "  I  shall  never  forgive  myself  for  all  the 
trouble  I  have  caused  you.  Ah — 

"  '  Woman,  in  our  hours  of  ease, 
Uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please, 
When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow, 
A  ministering  angel,  thou!'  " 

He  mouthed  the  hackneyed  lines  in.  the  most  approved  style 
of  the  modern  school,  and  expected  Lyra  to  blush  and  simper, 


72  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

and  the  slightly  surprised  look  in  her  large  sad  eyes  rath«r 
disconcerted  him. 

"  Are  you  fond  of  poetry?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  Lyra,  wearily. 

"  I  knew  it,"  he  murmured.  "  It  were  unnecessary  to  ask. 
Your  face  is  the  index  of  a  poet's  soul.  I — er — am  an  humble 
but  devoted  servant  of  the  divine  Muse.  Have  you  chanced — 
oh! — whew! — have  you  chanced  to  read  these  lines  of  mine — 
they  are  tolerably  well  known? 

"  '  When  in  the  dark  and  ' — oh — whew! — '  stilly  night, 
I  see  the  ' — ah! — '  flickering  candle-light; 
What  visions  swarm ' — oh,  dear! — '  around  my  head, 
And  fill  the  curtains  of  my ' — gracious! — '  bed!'  " 

"  No,"  said  Lyra. 

"  Yes,"  she  thought,  "  he  must  be  a  madman  escaped  from 
some  lunatic  asylum." 

"  No?  I  thought  they  had  penetrated  even  to  such  remote 
regions  as  this.  Would  you  like — shall  I  repeat  the  remainder 
of  the— oh!  oh!— poem?" 

"  I  do  not  think  you  should  talk,"  faltered  Lyra,  sooth- 
ingly. 

"  Do  not  forbid  me  the  sweet  consolation  of  conversing  with 
my  preserver,"  he  murmured.  "  I  forget  my  pain — almost — 
while  exchanging  these  sweet  reflections  with  one  so — er — so 
capable  of  appreciating  them  as  I  am  sure  you  are." 

Lyra  walked  a  little  way  toward  the  valley  to  render  any 
further  conversation  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  and  stood 
watching  and  waiting  for  Griffith. 

At  last,  to  her  infinite  relief,  she  saw  him  and  Mary  hurry- 
ing along. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come,  Griffith!"  she  said.  "  I 
am  afraid  he  is  very  ill;  he  has  been  talking  so  strangely." 

Griffith  grunted,  and  unfolded  a  thick  rug. 

"  He's  not  so  bad  as  he  thinks,  Miss  Lyra,"  he  said,  almost 
within  hearing  of  the  martyr. 

"  Now,  sir,  let  us  put  this  rug  under  you,  and  we'll  carry 
you  to  the  master's  cottage." 

Mr.  Chandos,  with  sundry  groans  and  moans,  got  himself  de- 
posited on  the  impromptu  stretcher,  and  was  raised  from  the 
ground  by  Mary  and  Griffith. 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  drop  me!"  he  exclaimed,  in  an 
agony  of  apprehension. 

"  We  sha'n't  drop  ye/'  said  Griffith,  curtly.  '  You're 
none  so  heavy." 


ONCE    Mf    A    LIFE.  73 

"Be  careful,  be  careful,  I  beg  of  you!"  implored  Mr. 
Chandos,  as  ho  swayed  to  and  fro.  "  A  sudden  shock,  a  fall 
on  this  uneven  ground,  might — Heaven  knows  what  it  might 
do.  Where  is  my  fair  rescuer?" 

Griffith  scowled  over  his  shoulder  at  him. 

"  D'ye  mean  Miss  Lyra?"  he  snarled. 

'*  Yes,  if  that  is  her  name — it  is  a  sweet  name — beg  her  not 
to  leave  me." 

Lyra  walked  beside  him. 

"  You  are  quite  safe,"  she  said,  encouragingly. 

"  I  feel  it,  I  feel  it,  with  you  by  my  side,"  murmured  Mr. 
Chandos;  and  he  stretched  out  his  hand  with  the  expression  of 
a  man  fast  sinking;  but  Lyra  probably  did  not  see  the  hand, 
for  her  eyes  wene  fixed  on  the  river,  and  her  thoughts  far 
away,  so  that  Mr.  Chandos' s  delicate  paw  was  fain  to  hang 
limp  and  disregarded  over  the  rug. 

They  reached  the  cottage,  and  Mr.  Chandos  was  deposited 
on  the  sofa  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  string  of  groans  and 
moans  and  "  oh,  dears!" 

Mr.  Chester  entered;  he  had  been  wandering  along  the  river- 
bank  with  a  book  which  he  still  held  in  his  hand,  and  he  not 
unnaturally  stared  at  this  eruption  into  his  small  and  quiet 
sitting-room. 

"  What — what — ?"  he  stammered,  looking  from  one  to  the 
other  vacantly. 

"  It  is  an  accident,  father,"  explained  Lyra. 

"  To  you?"  he  asked,  looking  at  her  pale,  wan  face. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No;  to  this  gentleman.     He  has  hurt  his  foot." 

"  I  fear  it  is  a  bad,  a  very  bad  fracture,"  murmured  Mr. 
Chandos.  "  I  must  apologize  for  this  intrusion;  but,  indeed, 
if  it  had  not  been  for  the  timely  arrival — oh,  dear! — of  your 
daughter  and  man-servant  upon  the  spot  where  I  lay  alone 
and  helpless — " 

Mr.  Chester  cut  short  the  suavely  flowing  voice. 

"'  What  is  it — what  is  the  matter  with  him?"  he  asked,  im- 
patiently. 

"  Leave  Tn'm  to  me  and  Mary,  and  we'll  see,"  growled 
Griffith. 

Mr.  Chester  and  Lyra  went  out  of  the  room. 

"  Are  you  frightened?"  he  asked,  blinking  at  her  pale  face. 
"  Where  have  you  been?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  all  her  new,  strange  misery  in  her 
eyes,  and  would  have  thrown  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and, 
with  her  face  hidden  against  his  breast,  have  poured  out  all 


f4  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

fcer  trouble,  had  there  been  one  spark  of  tenderness  in  his  face 
t>r  voice;  but  there  was  none. 

"  No,  father,"  she  said,  "  I  am  not  frightened.  I — I  have 
been  up  the  valley." 

She  passed  him,  and  went  slowly,  with  a  dragging  step,  up 
the  stairs,  and  was  in  her  own  room  and  alone  at  last.  Alone, 
fcnd  free  to  recall  again  and  again  the  scene  between  her  and 
Dane! 

What  a  different  person  was  this  wan  girl  who  knelt  beside 
her  bed,  with  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands,  to  the  Lyra  Ches- 
ter who,  with  Love's  music  beginning  to  sing  in  her  heart,  had 
Walked  beside  Dane  Armitage  up  the  valley!  In  that  brief 
space  of  a  few  hours  she  had  passed  across  that  mystic  brook 
which  divides  girlhood  from  womanhood;  had  learned  the 
meaning  of  love,  and,  alas!  of  sorrow.  She  was  confused,  be- 
wildered, still,  but  through  all  her  vague  misery  there  rose 
distinct  and  palpable  the  face  of  Dane  Armitage,  and  though 
all  else  were  uncertain,  she  knew  that  she  loved  him,  that  he 
had  taken  with  him  her  heart  and  soul,  and  that  without  his 
love,  his  presence,  her  life  must  be  one  long  yearning,  one 
long  pain. 

While  she  drank  to  the  dregs  of  the  cup  which  Love  pressed 
to  her  lips,  Griffith  and  Mary  removed  Mr.  Chandos's  stocking, 
and  Griffith  was  able  to  pronounce  the  injury  a  sprain  and  not 
a  broken  limb. 

"  You'll  be  all  right  in  a  day  or  two — a  week  at  most,"  he 
grunted,  as  he  wound  a  cold-water  bandage  round  the  ankle. 

You  don't  want  a  doctor,"  he  remarked  to  Mr.  Chandos's 
querulous  request  that  a  doctor — the  best  in  the  place — might 
be  fetched.  All  you  want  is  to  rest  your  foot  till  the  sprain's 
gone.  I'll  get  you  a  fly  from  Barnstaple." 

But  this  suggestion  did  not  meet  with  Mr.  Chandos's  ap- 
proval. He  pictured  to  himself  a  week  on  a  horse-hair  sofa  in 
the  parlor  of  a  provincial  hotel,  and  shuddered  at  the  vision. 
He  looked  round  the  shabby  but  cozy  room,  remembered  Lyra, 
reflected  that  it  would  be  far  more  pleasant  to  lie  here  within 
sight  of  the  lovely  face,  within  hearing  of  her  musical  voice, 
and  resolved  that  he  would  remain  at  the  cottage.  Yes,  it 
would  be  quite  too  delightful  to  spend  the  time  conversing 
with  and  "  cultivating  "  this  beautiful  girl  who  seemed  to  have 
no  protector  but  an  absent-minded  father  and  a  hunchback 
servant.  Yes,  he  would  stay. 

"  I — I  really  don't  think  I  could  bear  removal,"  he  mur- 
mured, with  a  deep  sigh.  "I  am  in  great  pain;  and  though 
the  Injury  may  be  no  greater  than  you  say,  my  man,  the  jour- 


ONCE    IK    A    LIFE.  ?5 

ney  to  Barnstaple  over  these  terrible  roads  of  yours  might  ag* 
gravate  it.  Pray,  ask  your  master — what  is  his  name?" 

"  Chester,"  growled  Griffith. 

— "  Mr.  Chester  if  he  will  take  pity  upon  a  wounded  man, 
and  give  him  shelter  for  a  few  days?" 

Griffith  eyed  him  with  strong  disfavor. 

"  You're  able  to  go  to  Ameriky!"  he  snarled. 

"  I  think  not,  my  good  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Chandos,  with  a 
sigh.  "  Please  take  my  message  to  your  master." 

Mr.  Chester  came  in  and  blinked  and  stared  at  the  visitor, 
and,  in  response  to  Mr.  Chandos' s  plaintive  prayer,  at  onc« 
offered  his  hospitality. 

"  I  suppose  there  is  a  room  somewhere?"  he  said,  vaguely, 
to  Mary. 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir,  we  can  put  the  gentleman  up,"  said  Mary, 
to  whom  a  visitor  was  an  agreeable  novelty  and  pleasurable 
excitement. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Chester,  absently.  "  We  shall  be 
very  pleased  if  you  will  stay  with  us  till  you  are  able  to — to 
walk,  Mr.—" 

Mr.  Chandos  was  about  to  give  his  name,  but  paused  and 
hesitated. 

There  are  some  men  who  prefer  the  ways  of  darkness  to 
those  of  light — who  seem  incapable  of  "  going  straight." 

"  My  name  is  Geoffrey  Barle  " — he  had  publised  a  volume 
of  "  poems  "  under  that  nom  de  plume — "  Geoffrey  Barle  " — 
he  said.  "  You  may  have  heard  of  it?" 

Mr.  Chester  shook  his  head. 

"  I — I  hope  you'll  be  comfortable,"  he  said,  absently;  and 
made  haste  to  get  out  and  back  to  his  book  in  the  garden. 

Mr.  Chandos  closed  his  eyes  and  drew  a  breath  of  relief  and 
satisfaction.  Yes,  she  certainly  was  a  lovely  creature,  and 
worth  "  cultivating."  After  all,  notwithstanding  his  sprained 
foot,  he  was  very  lucky — very  lucky! 


CHAPTER  X. 

made  his  way  back  to  the  hotel,  and  something  of 
the  storm  that  raged  within  him  must  have  been  visible  in  his 
face,  for  the  waiter  stared  at  him  curiously  and  apprehensively, 
and  shrunk  away  from  him  timidly,  as  Dane  said: 

"  Get  my  bill  at  once,  and  send  my  things  to  the  station." 
To  put  it  shortly,  he  was  as  bewildered  as  Lyra — as  bewil- 
dered, but  even  more  troubled  and  sorrow-stricken,  for  our 
friend,  the  guilty  conscience,  contributed  his  quota. 


76  ONCE    IN    A    LIKE. 

Dane  Armitage  was  not  a  good  young  man,  by  any  means; 
but,  with  all  his  follies,  he  still  had  a  keen  regard  for  honor. 

His  creed  was  a  very  simple  one,  and  honor  was  its  key- 
stone. He  was  engaged  to  his  cousin,  Theodosia  Hainault. 
That  is  to  say,  he  was  bound  by  a  promise,  had  plighted  his 
word,  his  oath,  and  as  a  gentleman  he  was  bound  hand  and 
foot,  heart  and  soul,  by  that  plighted  word.  There  are  still 
some  men  whose  word  is  as  good  as  their  bond,  and  Dane  was 
one  of  them. 

If  he  had  promised  to  ride  barebacked  from  London  to 
Mesopotamia,  ne  would  have  tried  it,  even  if  he  had  died  in 
the  effort.  He  had  promised  to  marry  his  cousin  Theodosia, 
and  he  must  keep  that  promise. 

In  the  supreme  moment  when  he  became  conscious,  when 
he  realized  that  he  loved  Lyra  Chester,  he  had  for  that  mo- 
ment forgotten  Theodosia  and  his  plighted  word;  but  the  let- 
ter, as  it  lay  on  the  ground  between  him  and  Lyra,  reminded 
him  of  it. 

He  stood  between  Love  and  Honor,  and  with  such  a  man  as 
Dane,  Honor  must,  at  all  costs,  win  the  day. 

As  Lyra  had  left  him,  as  he  watched  her  go,  he  felt  that  the 
joy,  the  hope  of  his  life  was  going  with  her;  but  he  made  no 
sign,  no  effort  to  stop  her.  It  was  noblesse  oblige.  A  better 
man,  a  "  good  "  man,  might  have  yielded,  would  probably 
have  said,  "  Love  before  all,"  and  gone  after  her;  but  not 
Dane. 

The  Starminsters  had  never  broken  their  word,  much  less 
their  plighted  troth,  and  he  could  not  do  so.  And  yet  lie 
loved  her  as  dearly,  as  passionately  as  ever  man  loved  woman, 
and  he  knew  that  she  loved  him.  He  had  read  it  in  her  face, 
her  eyes,  and  yet  he  had  to  let  her  go. 

All  the  way  to  the  hotel  her  face  haunted,  tortured  him. 
Not  once  nor  twice,  but  many  tunes  he  stopped  short,  tempted 
by  the  agonizing  desire  to  go  to  her,  to  cast  honor  to  the  winds, 
and  claim  her  for  his  own.  But  honor  prevailed,  at  a  cost  no 
pen  can  describe. 

They  took  his  things  to  the  station,  and  he  paced  up  and 
down  on  surely  that  draughtiest  of  all  platforms,  the  Barn- 
staple,  till  the  London  train  steamed  slowly  in.  He  flung 
himself  into  a  comer  of  a  carriage  and  lighted  his  pipe;  but 
for  once  the  soothing  weed  refused  to  calm  him. 

There,  on  the  opposite  seat,  sat,  in  his  mind's  eye,  Lyra 
Chester.  He  could  see  the  lovely,  innocent  face  quite  plainly, 
the  grave,  half-sad  eyes  seeme-3  to  gaze  at  him;  he  could  hear 
her  voice  through  the  pulling  oJ'  ^  *mgine,  the  rattle  of  the 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  -77 

wheels,  the  screeching  of  the  whistle.     There  was  not  an  inci- 
dent of  their  brief  acquaintance  that  he  did  not  re-enact. 

He  felt  himself  drawn  down  by  the  current  of  the  Taw,  -saw 
her  beautiful  face  anxiously  bent  over  him,  put  her  arms — her 
dear  arms! — round  him.  He  saw  her  as,  all  unconscious  of 
his  gaze,  she  threw  the  fly  over  the  stream,  and,  last  and  most 
i  bitter  vision  of  all,  there  rose  before  him  the  vision  of  her 
standing  pointing  to  the  letter  that  lay  on  the  ground  between 
them. 

It  was  the  worst  journey  Dane  Armitage  had  ever  made, 
and  it  lingered  in  Ms  memory  for  many  a  year. 

When  he  got  to  Waterloo,  he  inquired  how  soon  the  next 
train  started  for  Starminster. 

The  porter,  after  a  great  deal  of  inquiring,  informed  him 
that  it  started  at  midnight.  Dane  took  a  ticket,  and  spent  a 
couple  of  cheerful  hours  marching  up  and  down  the  platform, 
going  over  the  whole  thing  again  and  again. 

Once  he  was  tempted  to  fling  his  ticket  to  Starminster  on  to 
the  permanent  way,  and  book  for  Barnstaple;  but  honor  still 
prevailed,  and  he  found  himself  in  the  Starminster  train, 
wearied  to  death  physically  and  mentally. 

It  is  a  long  journey  from  classic  Waterloo  to  Starminster, 
and  it  was  getting  on  toward  noon  when  Dane  alighted  from 
the  train  at  the  little  country  station. 

The  station-master,  all  the  porters,  knew  him,  and  gathered 
around  him,  obsequiously  eager  to  be  of  service;  and  between 
them,  with  much  hustling  and  emulation,  they  got  him  a  fly. 

"  Drive  to  Castle  Towers,"  he  said,  wearily,  as  he  sunk 
back  and  pulled  his  traveling-cap  over  his  aching  eyes. 

"  To  Castle  Towers,  not  the  Hall,  my  lord?"  queried  the 
driver,  with  respectful  surprise. 

Dane,  I  regret  to  say,  swore. 
,     "  To  Castle  TowersJ"  he  repeated. 

The  man  gathered  up  the  reins  and  whipped  up  his  horse, 
and  for  the  space  of  another  half  hour  Lord  Dane  had  the  op- 
portunity of  ruminating  over  his  misery.  At  the  end  of  that 
time  the  fly  lumbered  up  a  spacious  avenue  and  drew  up  at 
the  terraced  entrance  of  Castle  Towers,  the  residence  of  Lady 
Theodosia  Hainault. 

As  the  fly  stopped,  Dane  roused  himself,  looked  round  him 
and  sighed. 

The  avenue,  the  far-stretching  facade  of  the  great  house, 
the  trimly  kept  hedges,  the  exquisitely  arranged  garden  in 
iront  of  the  terrace,  were  all  eloquent  of  wealth  and  smiling 


78  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

prosperity — a  marked,   a  striking    contrast    to  the   simple, 
shabby  cottage  which  haunted  him. 

He  got  out;  a  couple  of  footmen  hurried  down  the  marble 
steps  and  bent  their  heads  in  respectful,  reverential  greeting. 
>      "Is  Lady  Theodosia  in?"  he  asked. 

One  of  the  men  looked  at  him  with  veiled  curiosity.     Dane 
•  was  pale,  almost  haggard,  and  remarkably  travel-stained. 

"  Yes,  my  lord.     In  the  library." 

Dane  went  slowly  up  the  steps,  dropped  his  hat  on  the  hall 
table,  and  was  ushered  by  another  footman  into  the  library. 

It  was  a  noble  room,  lined  with  books  in  book-cases  of  rose- 
wood picked  out  with  ormolu  and  paneled  with  Wedgwood. 

Seated  in  chairs  round  a  table — but  at  a  little  distance — were 
two  clergymen  in  the  regulation  dress,  and  a  lady  in  widow's 
weeds. 

In  a  chair  by  the  table  sat  a  young  lady  dressed  in  black 
merino  relieved  by  white — gleamingly,  almost  painf  ully — white 
collar  and  cuffs. 

She  was  small,  very  small,  but  there  was  an  air  of  mature 
solemnity  and  gravity  in  her  by  no  means  plain  countenance 
which  made  her  look  older  than  her  years. 

Before  her  on  the  table  were  an  account  book,  pamphlets, 
and  formidable-looking  papers,  and  she  held  a  pen  in  her  hand. 

She  looked  up  as  Dane  entered,  and  greeted  him  with  a 
grave  smile — not  a  blush,  and  he  noted  it — and  made  an  entry 
in  the  account  book  before  she  rose,  and  said,  by  way  of  wel- 
come. 

"  Is  that  you,  Dane?  Good-morning.  We  are  in  the  middle 
of  a  Dorcas  committee  meeting.  Sit  down." 

Dane  nodded  to  the  parsons  and  the  lady,  and,  with  a  sup- 
pressed groan,  sunk  into  a  chair. 

CHAPTER  XI. 

DANE  sat  down  and  looked  at  the  Dorcas  committee  with 
the  expression  on  his  handsome  face  which  a  man  wears  when 
he  finds  himself  in  company  which  he  doesn't  like,  and  which, 
he  knows,  doesn't  like  him,  and  both  he  and  the  company 
have  to  try  and  look  pleasant. 

The  lady  in  the  widow's  weeds  smiled  at  him  severely,  one 
of  the  clergymen  smiled  at  him  vacantly,  the  third  eyed  him 
with  a  grim  kind  of  disfavor.  There  is  no  need  to  describe 
the  first,  the  vicar;  the  third  was  a  thin,  rather  lantern- jawed 
young  man,  with  a  big  nose  and  thin  lips,  and  remarkably  in- 
tellectual eyes.  His  name  was  Martin  Fanshawe.  The  Rev 


ONCE    ITS    A    LIFE.  79 

erend  Martin  Fanshawe  was  the  curate  of  the  parish  in  which 
Castle  Towers  stood.  He  was  a  good  young  man,  but  rather 
hard  and  exacting,  as  a  man  must  necessarily  become  who, 
being  "  good  "  himself,  burns  with  a  desire  to  make  his  fel- 
low-creatures good  also.  He  was  a  great  favorite  of  Lady 
Theodosia  Haicault,  who  regarded  him  as  a  type  of  all  the 
Christian — and  several  of  the  heathen — virtues;  and  she  and 
he,  to  put  it  vulgarly,  "  ran  "  the  parish,  the  vicar  being  a 
dear,  sleepy,  easy-going  old  man  who  left  things  generally  to 
Ms  curate,  and  was  quite  content  as  long  as  he  himself  was  not 
worried.  So  the  Reverend  Martin,  being  an  energetic  young 
man,  threw  himself  into  his  work,  and  made  things  in  Tor- 
chester,  which  was  the  name  of  the  parish,  "  hum  "  as  the 
Americans  say. 

He  started  temperance  societies,  bands  of  hope,  Dorcas 
meetings,  savings  banks,  workingmen's  clubs,  penny  readings, 
and  all  the  other  means  by  which  the  village  laborer  is  wooed 
from  the  public-house  and  made  "  good,"  whether  he  likes  it 
or  not. 

And  Lady  Theodosia  Hainault,  the  young  lady  with  the 
thoughtful  eyes  and  grave  mien,  helped  him  with  all  her  heart 
and  soul,  and  with  her  purse. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  well-known  peer  who  had  mar- 
ried an  enormously  wealthy  woman,  and  all  her  mother's 
money  had  come  to  Lady  Theodosia,  together  with  Castle 
Towers,  one  of  the  finest  seats  "  in  England. 

Her  father,  Lord  Hainault,  had  been  a  great  friend  of 
Dane's  father,  and  the  two  men  had  arranged  that  their  chil- 
dren should  become  husband  and  wife;  so  that  Lady  Theodosia 
and  Lord  Dane  had  been,  so  to  speak,  betrothed  in  then*  cra- 
dles. They  had  been  playfellows  together,  and  as  Starminster 
Hall  and  Castle  Towers  were  at  no  great  distance  from  each 
other,  were  seldom  apart.  The  girl,  always  a  quiet,  solemn 
little  thing,  had  grown  up  to  regard  the  wild,  harum-scarum 
boy  as  her  husband,  and  Dane  had  always  considered  himself 
"  booked  "  to  his  cousin  Theodosia. 

To  bind  the  tie  still  closer^  Lord  Hainault  made  a  will  by 
which  a  certain  sum  of  money — a  very  large  sum  even  for  these 
"  millionaire  "  times — should  go  to  the  young  people  if  they 
married,  and  go  away  from  them  to  the  heir  to  the  title — a 
cousin — in  the  event  of  their  breaking  off  the  match. 

Naturally,  Lord  Starminster  was  exceedingly  anxious  that 
the  match  should  not  be  broken  off,  but  that  the  matrimonial 
arrangement  should  be  carried  through;  and  it  was  not  only 
monetary  considerations  which  made  him  anxious  that  his  son 


80  ONCE    IK    A    LIFE. 

should  marry  Lady  Theodosia.  Dane  was  rattier,  well, 
"wild"  and  restless;  Theodosia  was  grave,  serene,  "  good;n 
therefore  she  would  make  a  very  suitable  wife,  be  a  fine  re? 
straining  influence  on  Dane,  and  keep  him  straight. 

And  the  young  people  were  fond  of  each  other;  there  could 
be  no  doubt  of  that.  They  always  got  on  well  together.  Dane 
used  to  confide  in  Theodosia,  confessed  his  scrapes — some  of 
them — to  her,  took  her  advice,  and  her  sermons  and  lectures, 
patiently  and  in  good  part. 

They  seldom  quarreled;  but  when  they  did,  Dane  was  always 
the  first  to  own  up  and  make  friends;  for  he  was  a  good- 
natured,  easy-going  modest  young  fellow,  and  had  sense  enough 
to  see  that  the  little  girl  with  the  grave  face  and  dark  eyes  had 
twice  as  many  brains  as  he,  and  was  twice  as  good. 

And  until  he  met  Lyra  Chester  he  had  been  quite  satisfied 
with  his  matrimonial  prospects,  had  looked  forward  to  marry- 
ing Theodosia — some  day — with  easy  serenity,  and  had  never 
asked  himself  what  love  meant.  Now  all  things  had  become 
changed  in  his  mind  and  his  heart.  He  had  learned  what  love 
meant,  and  the  knowledge — like  most  knowledge,  by  the  way 
— had  brought  him  much  misery. 

He  sat  and  looked  round  at  the  solemn  conclave,  and  won- 
dered how  he  could  get  away.  A  few  days  ago  he  would  have 
jumped  up,  and  said: 

"  See  you  presently,  Dosie,"  and  cut  and  run;  but  he 
couldn't  do  it  to-day,  he  felt  too  penitent  and  full  of  remorse. 

"  Thirty-six  yards  of  Welsh  flannel,  at  a  shilling  and  five- 
pence  farthing,  would  come  to— to— " 

There  was  a  pause,  and  Theodosia  looked  absently  at  Dane 
as  she  tried  to  make  the  mental  calculation. 

"  No  use  looking  in  this  direction,"  he  said,  shaking  his 
head.  "  Haven't  the  least  idea;  couldn't  tell  you  to  save  my 
life." 

Theodosia  smiled  indulgently;  but  the  Reverend  Martin 
Fanshawe  frowned  as  if  in  rebuke  at  such  levity. 

"  Two  pounds  eleven  and  nmepence,"  he  said,  gravely. 

"Thank    you,   Mr.    Fanshawe,"   with  gentle    gratitude. 

'  Two  pounds  eleven  and  ninepence.     Now,  let  us  see;  how 

many  members  are  there?    Twenty-eight;  and  they  subscribe 

twopence  a  week.     How  many — how  long  would  it  be  before 

they  made  up  the  amount?" 

There  was  a  pause,  which  Dane  very  injudiciously  filled  iz 
by  remarking: 

'*  About  a  hundred  years,  I  should  think." 


ONCE    IK    A    LIFE.  81 

They  all  looked  solemnly,  reprovingly  at  him,  and  Lady 
Theodosia  colored  slightly. 

"  My  dear  Dane,  I'm  afraid  you  don't  understand  the  im- 
portance of  this  work.  We  are  endeavoring,  under  Mr.  Fan- 
shawe's  guidance,  to  establish  a  Dorcas  society,  with  the  object 
of  supplying  the  poor  with  warm  winter  garments. " 

"  I  see,"  said  Dane,  cheerfully;  "  and  you  want  to  buy  the 
flannel.  All  right.  Let  me  help.  I  shall  be  delighted.  I'll 
give  the  two  pounds  eleven  and  tenpence — no,  ninepence, 
wasn't  it?" 

The  lady  in  the  weeds  groaned,  the  vicar  smiled  pitingly, 
Martin  Fanshawe  sighed  with  an  air  of  long  sufferance. 

"  Oh,  no!  no,  thank  you,"  said  Lady  Theodosia.  "  Don't 
you  understand,  my  dear  Dane,  that  we  want  the  society  to 
be  self-supporting.  We  do  not  wish  to  pauperize  them.  We 
want  to  guard  against  that  most  carefully.  It  is  very  kind  of 
you  to  take  so  much  interest  and  be  so  generous — 

"  Oh,  come!"  said  Dane. 

— "  But  we  can  not  make  a  charity  of  it;  it  must  be  self- 
supporting." 

"  All  right,"  said  Dane,  cheerfully  and  with  a  glimmer  of 
common  sense,  "  then  you  must  raise  the  subscriptions  or 
give  'em  less  or  cheaper  flannel." 

Mr.  Fanshawe  rose  with  a  slight  frown. 

"  I  think  we  had  better  adjourn  the  meeting,  Lady  Theo- 
dosia," he  said,  in  his  grave,  clerical  voice. 

"  Here!  I'll  clear  out,"  said  Dane,  rising  with  suspicious 
alacrity.  "  I'm  in  the  way. " 

"Oh,  not  at  all!"  murmured  Mr.  Fanshawe,  in  rather  a 
shocked  voice.  "  We  have  taken  up  a  great  deal  of  Lady 
Theodosia's  time  already,  and — er — we  can  meet  again  later 
on." 

They  gathered  up  their  papers,  and  made  their  adieus — Mar- 
tin Fanshawe  bending  over  Lady  Theodosia's  hand  with  a  rev- 
erential gesture — and,  as  Dane  would  have  put  it,  "  cleared 
out;"  and  he  and  Theodosia  were  left  alone. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  engaged,  Dosie,"  he  said,  "  or  I 
wouldn't  have  come  in.  Why  didn't  you  let  me  take  myself 
off.  I'm  like  a  bull  in  a  crockery  shop." 

She  shut  up  her  account  book,  and  smiled  up  at  him  gently, 
indulgently,  as  a  mother  smiles  at  a  good-hearted  but  rather 
spoiled  child. 

"  Oh,  no,  Dane!    Besides,  you  might  have  helped  us." 

"  Well,  I  tried' to,"  said  Dane, 

She  shook  her  head. 


82  OffCE    DJ    A    LIFE. 

"  In  the  wrong  way,  I'm  afraid,  Dane.  But  you  are  not 
expected  to  understand  this  kind  of  thing." 

"  No;  it's  rather  out  of  my  line,"  admitted  Dane; 
"  though,  after  all,  it  still  seems  to  me  that  it  must  be  easier 
to  give  'em  the  flannel  petticoats,  or  whatever  they  are,  and 
say  no  more  about  it." 

"  Easier?  Ah,  yes!  but  if  we  always  did  that  which  was 
the  easiest  in  this  life — " 

"  We  should  all  be  much  jollier,"  he  put  in,  like  the  heathen 
he  was.  "  But  never  mind.  You  haven't  told  me  how  you 
are,  Dosie." 

"  You  haven't  asked  me  yet,"  she  said,  with  a  smile. 
am  very  well;  but  your  father  is  not  at  all  well.     He  has  a  bad 
attack  of  the  gout  in  his  hand,  as  I  told  you,  and  he  wants  to 
see  you.     That  is  why  I  wrote." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  nod;  "  and  I  came." 

"  Yes,"  she  said — she  didn't  throw  her  arms  round  his  neck 
and  murmur:  "  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come,  dear  Dane!*' — 
"  yes;  he  caught  it  at  a  meeting  up  in  the  north.  He  had  to 
stand  on  a  draughty  platform  for  three  hours." 

"  I  see,"  said  Dane.  "  Why  on  earth  does  he  do  such  mad 
things?"' 

She  reproachfully  raised  her  dark  eyes  to  bis. 

"  Your  father  does  bis  duty  at  all  costs,  Dane." 

"  I  know,"  he  said,  rather  wearily. 

"  But  where  have  you  been?"  she  asked,  looking  up  at  him 
from  the  depth  of  a  great  chair  which  seemed  to  swallow  her. 

He  was  leaning  against  the  mantel-shelf  with  his  hands 
thrust  into  his  jacket  pockets. 

"  Oh,  here,  there,  and  everywhere;  going  up  and  down  like 
a  roaring  lion — " 

"  Dane!"  she  murmured,  reprovingly. 

:<  Eh?    Oh,  beg  pardon!    Oh,  I've  been  all  over  the  shop." 
'  You  are  not  looking  well,"  she  remarked.     "  Have  you 
been  traveling  a  great  deal?" 

A  faint  color  tinged  his  face,  and  he  kept  his  eyes  on  the 
carpet. 

Well — yes,  I've  had  a  longish  spell  in  the  train,  and  I'm 
rather  tired." 

"  And  have  you  not  been  home?  Why  did  you  not  go  there 
first?"  she  asked,  quite  calmly. 

Dane  looked  at  h«r.  He  could  scarcely  say:  "  A  guilty 
conscience  drove  me  here." 

"  Oh,  I'll  go  there  now,"  he  said.  "  I  thought,  perhaps, 
you'd  be  glad  to  gee  me,"  he  added,  thinking,  as  he  spoke,  of 


OKCE    IX    A    LIFE.  83 


yesterday  In  the  valley,  of  the  lovely,  passion-lit  face  of 
Chester,  and  not  unnaturally  drawing  a  comparison  between 
her  and  this  cold  little  saint. 

"  Of  course  I  am  glad  to  see  you/'  she  said,  in  even  tones. 
"And  you  must  stay  to  lunch.  It  is  just  ready.  You  did 
not  tell  me  where  you  have  been." 

"  Didn't  I?"  he  said,  turning  away  and  examining  one  of 
the  bronses  on  the  mantel-shelf,  as  if  he  had  not  known  it 
since  boyhood.  "  Oh,  I've  been  fishing  and  tramping  about. 
There's  nothing  to  tell." 

"  Oh,  Dane,  Dane!" 

"  I'd  better  go  and  wash  a  few  pounds  of  the  dust  off  me." 
he  remarked.  "  It's  a  good  many  hours  since  i  saw  soap  and 
water  last.  I  won't  be  long." 

He  went  up  the  broad  staircase  with  rather  a  dragging  step 
very  unlike  his  usual  one,  and  got  a  good  wash,  and  then  came 
down  to  the  meal  which  had  been  served  in  the  spacious  din- 
Jig-room,  which,  because  it  was  of  less  size  than  the  great 
banquet-room,  was  called  "  the  small  parlor." 

Lady  Theodosia's  companion  was  present  —  a  lady  just  past 
middle  age  —  a  very  pleasant  woman  of  the  world  who  was  very 
much  attached  to  Theodosia  and  a  great  friend  of  Dane.  She 
always  stood  up  for  him  when  Theodosia  alluded  to  his  idle 
restlessness,  and  declared  that  Lord  Dane,  like  a  good  many 
other  persons,  was  not  so  bad  as  he  was  painted.  It  may  be 
added  that  Mrs.  Leslie  was  not  particularly  fond  of  parsons. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Lord  Dane?"  she  said,  as  she  gave  him 
her  hand.  "  You  have  come  to  see  us  at  last.  Theodosia  in- 
sisted that  you  had  gone  to  Africa.  Everybody  goes  to  Africa 
now,  you  know./' 

"  I  know,"  h*e  said.  "  England  will  soon  relapse  into  bar- 
barism, I  surjpose,  and  civilized  people  will  be  coming  from 
Africa  presently,  just  to  see  our  ruins  and  shoot  our  wild 
beasts." 

"  The  accounts  of  the  mission  work  hi  Africa  are  very  in- 
teresting," remarked  Lady  Theodosia.  "But  I  suppose  you 
do  not  read  them,  Dane." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  don't,"  he  said.  "  Let  me  carve  that  fowl 
for  you,  Mrs.  Leslie.  Missionary  work  isn't  much  in  my  line. 
By  the  way,  they  might  send  over  half  a  dozen  missionaries 
from  Africa  to  look  up  our  heathen  in  the  slums  of  London. 
That  isn't  a  bad  idea,  eh,  Dosie?  Afraid  it  isn't  original, 
though." 

Theodosia  was  about  to  retort  in  her  gravely  mild 
when  Mrs.  Leslie  gently  stopped  the  fight. 


i4  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  two  begin  to  argue  about  missionaries  and 
the  rest  of  it,  until  after  lunch  and  I've  got  out  of  the  way! 
Argument  is  bad  for  the  digestion — and  tempej." 

"  All  right,"  said  Dane.  "  I  didn't  begin  it,  please,  mum." 

"  Tell  us  some  news,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie.  "  Theodosia  says 
you  have  been  fishing.  Have  you  had  good  sport?" 

Dane  vigoro*usly  helped  himself  to  another  slice  of  ham. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  replied,  "  fairly  good.  As  to  news,  I  ex- 
pected to  hear  it  from  you.  I  don't  often  read  the  papers, 
•excepting  The  Field,  you  know. " 

Lady  Theodosia  sighed. 

"  How  do  you  keep  your  mind  cultivated?"  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  cultivate  it,"  he  rejoined,  cheerfully.  "  Rather 
think  I  haven't  any  mind  to  cultivate.  Can't  help  it.  It  isn't 
my  fault,  as  the  boy  said  when  they  asked  him  why  he 
squinted." 

"  No,  Dane;  that  is  not  true,"  said  his  betrothed,  sweetly. 
"  I  can  not  let  that  plea  pass.  We  all  of  us  are  responsible 
for  our  mental  condition — all  excepting  those  of  us  who  are 
insane." 

"  Put  me  down  among  the  idiots,  then,"  he  responded,  with 
unabated  cheerfulness.  "  It's  no  use,  Dosie;  I  never  had  any 
brains.  You  can't  gather  grapes  from  thistles. " 

"  Thistles  are  not  bad  things  in  their  way,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Leslie,  with  a  faint  smile.  "  Some  people  like  them." 

"  Yes — donkeys,"  said  Dane,  laughing. 

"  Thanks — oh,  thanks!"  murmured  Mrs.  Leslie,  with  a 
laugh. 

Theodosia  looked  on  at  this  sally  with  grave  eyes. 

"  Why  do  you  encourage  him?"  she  asked,  with  gentle  re- 
proach. 

"  My  dear,  Lord  Dane  doesn't  need  any  encouragement," 
retorted  Mrs.  Leslie,  blandly. 

Dane  leaned  back  and  laughed.  He  could  enjoy  an  epi- 
gram, though  he  wasn't  clever  enough  to  make  one. 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  But  don't  you  think,  dear,  you  do  en- 
courage him;  that  it  would  be  better,  more  honest,  to  try  and 
open  his  eyes  to  his  faults,  and  help  fam  to  a  higher  and  more 
useful  life  than  the  one  he  is  leading  r' 

Mrs.  Leslie  suppressed  a  smile. 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be,"  she  said.  "  Suppose  we  begin  at 
once.  What  shall  we  take  first?" 

"  Couldn't  you  open  my  eyes,  as  you  call  it,  after  we've 
finished,  and  I'm  having  a  smoke  on  the  terrace?"  asked 
J)ane.  "  Besides,  how  do  you  know  they  are  not  open?" 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  85 

Lady  Theodosia  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  Dane,  I  can  not  believe  that  you  realize  the  responsi- 
bilities of  your  position,  that  you  realize  the  sin  of  a  useless, 
misdirected  life,  of  the  wasted  golden  hours  which  are  intrusted 
to  us  for  self -improvement,  and  for  labor  for  our  fellow-men. " 

Dane  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  seemed  to  be  listening  re" 
spectfully;  but  as  he  gazed  out  of  the  window  at  the  beautiful 
lawns  and  far-spreading  meadows  beyond,  all  of  which  would 
be  his  some  day,  when  he  married  the  present  pretty  and  pious 
owner,  his  thoughts  strayed.  He  saw  the  Taw  valley,  he 
heard  the  babble  of  the  stream,  he  saw  the  slim,  girlish  figure, 
the  rapt,  absorbed  face  of  Lyra  Chester,  as  she  stood  with 
poised  fltfhing-rod. 

"  You  might  do  so  much,  and  I  fear — indeed,  I  know,  dear 
Dane,  that  you  do  so  little,"  the  fair  preacher  went  on,  in  the 
soft,  gently  chiding  voice.  "  You  are  blessed  with  health,  and 
strength,  and  position,  all  advantages  which  you  should  use  in 
the  service  of  those  of  your  brothers  who  have  not  been  so 
richly  endowed/' 

He  saw  Lyra  Chester  turn  to  him  just  at  that  moment,  felt 
her  eyes  meet  his,  with  the  glow  of  innocent  joy  in  them. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  of  one  really  useful  thing  you  have  done, 
one  good  object  you  have  accomplished  during  the  time  you 
have  been  absent?  Can  you  recall  one,  dear  Dane?" 

He  was  silent. 

"  No.  It  is,  I  fear,  an  unbroken  record  of — forgive  me — 
selfish  amusement.  Fishing  is  not  the  sole  end  and  aim  of 
life,  Dane." 

"  No.     There's  hunting  and  shooting,"  he  said,  absently. 

Lady  Theodosia  colored,  and  looked  like  a  sweet  little  bird 
whose  feathers  had  been  suddenly  ruffled;  but  Mrs.  Leslie 
laughed. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  preaching  at  him,  my  dear,"  she  said. 
*'  He  has  been  thinking  of  something  else  while  you  have  been 
sermonizing.  Now  confess  you  were?"  and  she  turned  on 
Dane. 

Dane  started  slightly  and  flushed. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Dosie,"  he  said,  penitently.  "  I — I'm 
afraid  I  didn't  pay  the  closest  attention.  Now,  look  here;  I'll 
own  up  to  all  you've  accused  me  of — what  did  you  charge  me 
with — manslaughter,  burglary,  what? — and  I  hope  your  wor- 
ship will  give  me  the  option  of  a  fine.  It's  true  that  I  am  a 
lazy,  worthless  kind  of  a  wretch,  and  spend  my  time  smoking 
cigars — when  I'm  not  on  pipes — but  I'll  promise  to  reform.  I 
offered  to  take  the  pledge?  if  vou  remember,  some  time  ago, 


86  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

and  you  only  sighed.  I'll  do  anything  you  like  —  except  deliver 
tracts,  or  collect  for  the  missionaries  —  so  lay  your  commanda 
upon  your  humble  slave  right  away." 

Lady  Theodosia  sighed. 

"  You  can  not  be  serious,  Dane,  dear,"  she  said.  "  If  you 
can  not  find  work  to  your  hand,  I  can  not  point  it  out  to  you." 

"There  you  are,  you  see!"  he  exclaimed,  with  mild  tri- 
umph. "I'm  too  utterly  useless  for  anything.  I  told  you 
so!" 

"  No,  Dane,  dear,"  she  rejoined,  sweetly.  "  No  one  can 
put  in  that  plea.  All  of  us  can  find  some  work  suited  to  us. 
Take,  for  instance,  Chandos." 

Dane  made  a  grimace. 

"  I'd  rather  take  castor  oil,"  he  murmured.  Mrs.  Leslie 
laughed. 

Lady  Theodosia,  glancing  at  her  reproachfully,  went  on: 

"  Chandos  even  works.  It  is  true  that  one  can  not  always 
approve  of  —  of  all  he  writes.  There  is  something  besides  love 
in  this  world." 

"  There's  taxes,"  murmured  Dane,  irreverently. 

"  But  Chandos,  when  he  was  down  here,  took  a  great  inter- 
est in  our  parish  work,  and  has  promised  to  write  a  volume  of 
ballads  for  our  bazaar  in  the  autumn." 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Dane,  cheerfully,  wondering,  as  he 
spoke,  what  Lady  Theodosia  would  think  of  the  exquisite 
Chandos  if  she  knew  as  much  of  that  gentleman's  ways  as  he, 
Dane,  knew.  "  That's  very  kind  of  him;  but  I  can't  write  a 
volume  of  ballads.  But  I  tell  you  what,  I'll  give  you  a  ten- 
pound  note  —  a  genuine  one,  not  of  my  own  make  —  for  your 
bazaar." 

*'  I  do  not  want  your  money,  Dane,"  said  Lady  Theodosia, 
rather  ungratefully. 

"  I  see;  it's  my  life  you  want,"  he  rejoined. 

Lady  Theodosia  colored,  and  rose  with  dignity. 
I      "Dane!" 

"  Eh?    What  have  I  said  now?"  he  demanded. 

Lady  Theodosia  bent  another  reproachful  glance  at  him, 
and,  with  a  sigh,  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"  WHY  do  you  tease  her  so?"  asked  Mrs.  Leslie. 
*  That's  strange!     I  thought  I  was  the  one  who  was 
teased,"  said  Dane. 
Mrs.  Leslie  laughed,  but  rather  ruefully. 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  87 

"  She  is  very  fond  of  you,  Dane/'  she  said. 

"  Is  she?"  he  rejoined,  penitently  and  rather  doubtfully. 

"  Yes,  yes;  it  is  because  of  her  fondness  for  you  that  she — " 

"  Lectures  me,  wants  to  make  me  better,"  he  said.  "  Dosie 
is  too  good  for  me,  I  know  that,"  he  added,  with  self-reproach. 

Mrs.  Leslie  looked  at  him  earnestly. 

"  I  wish,  for  both  your  sakes,  that  you  would  try  and  get  on 
better.  Why  do  you  not  come  to  see  us  oftener,  Lord  Dane?'> 

He  looked  down;  he  felt  as  if  her  keen,  womanly  eyes  were 
reading  his  heart  and  learning  its  secret. 

"  You  should  not  stay  away  so  long.  Theodosia  is  sur- 
rounded by — by  adverse  influence,  by  person — persons,"  she 
corrected  herself,  "  who  make  it  their  business  to  keep  her  re- 
minded of  your — " 

"  Crimes." 

"  Shortcomings.  Lord  Dane,  Theodosia  is  a  sweet-natured, 
warm-hearted  girl,  and  her  only  fault  is — " 

He  waited. 

"  That  she  is  too  good,"  she  added,  with  a  burst  of  candor. 
"  But  she  will  improve  in  time." 

"  With  my  aid,  eh?"  said  Dane,  smiling,  but  rather  rue- 
fully. "  All  right;  I  won't  tease  her  any  more  if  I  can  help 
it.  But  look  here,  Mrs.  Leslie,  you  are  a  friend  of  both  of 
us—" 

"  I  am  that,  certainly,  Lord  Dane." 

"  Well,  do  you  think  " — he  hesitated — "  do  you  think  Dosie 
would  be  happier,  more — content,  if — if  she  were  free?" 

Mrs.  Leslie  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  no,"  she  responded;  "  you  must  not  think  of  that. 
No,  no.  Be  patient,  be — well,  more  '  good/  and  wait  until 
she  is  a  little  bad.  Ah,  no,  Lord  Dane,  you  and  she  are 
pledged;  you  can  not  draw  back." 

Dane  went  on  to  the  terrace  and  smoked  his  cigar.  When 
he  had  hinted  to  Mrs.  Leslie  of  a  rupture  of  the  engagement, 
his  heart  had  stirred  with  a  sudden  wild  hope;  but  her  words 
had  dispelled  that  hope.  He  smoked  his  cigar  and  went  back 
into  the  house,  and  spent  some  further  time  with  his  affianced, 
during  which,  by  careful  self-restraint,  he  managed  to  avoid 
another  passage  of  arms,  then  started  for  Starminster. 

He  reached  Starminster  in  the  gloaming.  Every  one  knows 
the  place  from  the  engraving  in  the  illustrated  papers.  It  is  a 
huge  building,  standing  in  a  park  noble  in  extent  and  rich  in 
forest-trees.  It  had  been  the  home  of  the  Starminsters  for 
centuries,  and  a  great  deal  of  history  had  been  made  within  its 
irregular  walls.  Dane  was  fond  of  it,  proud  of  it  in  a  way; 


88  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

but  as  he  looked  up  at  its  crooked  front,  which  generations  of 
his  line  had  added  to,  he  wished  in  Ms  heart  that  he  had  been 
born  a  mere  nobody,  free  to  do  as  he  pleased,  free  to — yes,  to 
tell  Lyra  Chester  that  he  loved  her,  and  make  her  his  sweet, 
dear  wife. 

He  flung  his  cigar  away  as  he  entered  the  hall — the  earl  did 
not  like  tobacco — and  was  met  by  the  stately  butler,  who  had 
been  in  the  family  since  he  was  a  boy,  working  his  way  up 
from  "  buttons"  to  footman,  and  thence  to  the  lofty  position 
he  at  present  filled. 

"  How  are  you,  Brownley?"  said  Dane,  in  his  genial,  kindly 
fashion. 

"  Thank  you,  my  lord,  quite  well,  and  I  hope  your  lord- 
ship's the  same,"  replied  Mr.  Brownley,  with  the  mixture  of 
affection  and  respect  which  distinguishes  the  "  old  retainer." 
"  The  earl's  been  expecting  you,  my  lord.  His  lordship  has 
got  a  bad  attack  of  the  gout,  and  ought  to  be  in  bed;  but  he 
won't  go.  He's  in  the  library,  my  lord." 

"  All  right;  1*11  go  to  him,"  said  Dane. 

He  passed  through  the  hall — the  famous  hall,  which  has 
been  painted  and  engraved  so  often  that  it  has  almost  become 
public  property — and  knocked  at  the  library  door. 

A  thin  and  rather  squeaky  voice  answered,  "  Come  in," 
and  Dane  entered. 

Though  it  was  not  yet  dark,  there  was  a  shaded  lamp  on 
the  large  writing-table,  and  its  light  fell  upon  a  thin,  care- 
worn, and — must  it  be  said? — rather  querulous  face.  It  was 
lined  with  wrinkles  that  clustered  in  a  thick  group  round  the 
tired-looking  eyes. 

"  How  are  you,  sir?"  said  Dane. 

The  earl  looked  up  from  a  sheet  of  paper  over  which  he  was 
bending. 

"  Is  that  you,  Dane?  Shut  the  door,  will  you?  The 
draught  simply  kills  me.  Sit  down.  Where  have  you  been?" 

Dane  sat  down.  How  many  more  tunes  was  he  to  be  asked 
that  Question — the  question  he  dared  not  answer? 

:(  Wandering  about,  as  usual,  sir,"  he  replied. 

The  earl  pushed  the  paper  from  him  with  restless  impa- 
tience, and  leaning  back,  surveyed  his  stalwart,  handsome  son 
with  a  troubled  gaze. 

"  Isn't  it  almost  tune  you  ceased  wandering?"  he  asked. 
"  I  ask  the  question  for  your  own  good.  You  will  be  master 
here  soon — " 

"  1  hope  not,  sir,"  put  in  Dane,  honestly,  affectionately. 
"  I  am  sorry  you  are  bad  again. " 


OKCE    IN    A    LIFE.  86 

"  I'm  nearly  always  bad  now,"  put  in  the  earl,  impatiently. 
"  I've  got  the  gout  in  my  hand — in  my  right  hand — so  that  I 
can't  write.  It's  a  terrible  nuisance — and  just  at  this  crisis, 
too.  I  suppose  you  know  that  a  general  election  is  likely?" 

"  I— I'm  afraid  I  don't,"  said  Dane.  "  I  don't  study  pol- 
itics much,  you  know,  sir." 

The  earl  groaned. 

"  I  suppose  not,"  he  said,  resignedly.  "  I  wish  to  Heaven 
you  did.  Dane,  no  young  man  ever  had  a  better  opportunity 
to  distinguish  himself  than  you  have." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Dane,  rather  absently — here  hi  the  lamp- 
light, as  in  the  sunlight  at  Castle  Towers,  the  tormenting 
vision  of  Lyra  Chester  rose  before  him. 

"  I  have  made  a  place  for  you,"  went  on  the  earl,  "  a  place 
into  which,  with  a  little  thought  and  labor,  you  could  easily 
step." 

Dane  shook  his  head. 

"  No  use,  father,"  he  said,  regretfully,  affectionately. 
"  You  can't  give  me  your  brains,  you  know.  For  Heaven's 
sake,  don't  build  your  hopes  upon  my  following  hi  your  foot- 
steps. I'm  no  good." 

The  earl  sighed  and  passed  his  ungouty  hand  over  his  weary 
forehead.  Not  only  was  his  brain  weary,  but  his  heart  and 
soul,  and  why  he  should  desire  that  his  son  should  inherit  his 
weariness  Heaven,  and  Heaven  only,  knows.  But  he  did  desire 
it  most  fervently. 

"  Well,  well,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh,  "  we  are  as  God  made 
us;"  and  his  tone  almost  implied  that  this  straight,  handsome 
son  of  his  was  an  idiot.  '  *  But,  Dane,  I  am  glad  you  have 
come.  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you. " 

"  Yes,  father,"  said  Dane,  with  the  tenderness  which  the 
strong-minded,  firm-nerved  man  feels  for  the  weak-minded, 
weak-nerved.  "  What  is  it?" 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  Theodosia  and  your  engage- 
ment." 

Dane  started  slightly  and  looked  down. 

"  Yes?" 

"  Yes.  Dane,  I  fear  you  don't  realize  your  position,  the 
responsibilities."  Poor  Dane  had  heard  the  word  "  responsi- 
bilities "  a  great  many  times  that  day,  and  he  winced.  "  You 
don't  realize  that  your  engagement  to  Theodosia  is  a  solemn, 
a  very  solemn  undertaking." 

"  I  think  I  do,  sir,"  said  Dane,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  You  do?  I  am  glad  of  it,"  said  the  earl.  "  I  am  de- 
voutly glad  of  it.  I  feared  that  of  late  you  had  grown— weil, 


90  OK€ffi    IN    A    LIFE. 

yes — careless,  Dane.  I  don't  want  to  inquire  into  your  mode 
of  life  or  your  doings.  I  know  a  young  man  permits  himself 
a  certain  amount  of  latitude;  but  I  know  that  you  are — well, 
rather  wild  and  reckless." 

"  Oh/'  said  Dane,  "  whom  did  you  hear  that  from,  sir.'' 

The  earl  shuffled  uneasily  hi  his  chair. 

"  Er — er — "  he  replied,  hesitatingly — "  I  heard  it — Chan- 
dos— " 

Dane  did  not  start  up  from  his  chair,  but  his  brows  dark- 
ened. 

"  I  see,  sir,"  he  said,  in  a  dry  voice.  "  Well,  Chandos 
ought  to  know." 

"  Chandos —  Don't  be  angry,  Dane.  I  can  not  endure 
;nuch  excitement." 

"  I  am  not  angry,"  said  Dane,  calmly;  and  indeed  his  scorn 
and  contempt  smothered  his  anger. 

"  Chandos  let  fall  a  hint  or  two.  I  don't  blame  you,  Dane. 
Please  understand  that.  If  I  mention  the  matter  at  all,  it  is 
because  I  want  to  impress  upon  you  my  conviction  that  your 
best  chance  of  happiness  lies  in  marrying  Theodosia,  and — and 
that  before  long.  Dane,  I  don't  ask  any  questions,  I  don't 
\yant  you  to  confide  hi  me;  all  I  wish  to  do  is  to  remind  you 
that  I  am  an  old  man,  that  you  will  soon  be  standing  in  my 
place,  and  that  it  is  only  natural  that  I  should  desire  to  see 
you  settled  in  life  before  I  depart  hence  and  am  no  more." 

There  was  a  touch  of  dignified  pathos  in  the  old  earl's  voice 
which  went  straight  to  Dane's  heart. 

He  rose  and  went  round  to  him,  and  laid  his  hand  on  the 
shoulder  bent  with  the  cares  of  state. 

"  What  is  it  you  want  me  to  say  and  do,  father?"  he  asked. 
The  earl  looked  up  at  him  with  loving,  earnest  eyes. 

I  hoped  to  see  you  married  to  Theodosia,  Dane,"  he  said, 
in  a  low,  grave  voice.  He  must  have  seen  the  grave  melan- 
i  holy,  the  wistful  sadness  in  Dane's  eyes;  for  he  went  on  ear- 

•  ily,  imploringly:  "  Dane,  you  are  not  thinking  of — of  draw- 
ing back?  It  can  not  be!  You  have  pledged  your  word. 
You  can  not  draw  back.  None  of  our  names  has  ever  been 
false  to  his  word,  his  plighted  oath!  Dane!  Dane!" — for 
Dane's  face  had  gone  white — "  what  does  this  mean?  Stop! 
If  you  are  going  to  tell  me  that  you  are  going  to  break  your 
word,  violate  your  oath,  don't  do  so!  I — I  could  not  bear  it! 
You  have  been  pledged  to  marry  Theodosia  from  your  boy- 
hood ;  the  engagement  has  stood  until  now.  It  can  not — can 
not — do  you  hear?— bo  broken!  Dane,  if  you  were  false  to 
your  word,  if  you— you  playec*  the  traitor  in  this  matter,  you 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  91 

» 

would  literally  bring  my  gray  hairs  in  sorrow  to  a  dishonored 
grave!" 

Though  the  vision  of  Lyra  Chester  rose  before  him  at  the 
moment,  though  his  heart  ached  with  love  for  her,  though  he 
would  ha\e  given  the  world  to  be  able  to  claim  her  for  his 
wife,  what  could  Dane,  Lord  Armitage,  say  but  this: 

"  Father  " — and  his  voice  sounded  hoarsely  in  the  quier, 
room — "  you  need  not  fear.  No  Armitage  ever  broke  his 
word.  I  shall  marry  Theodosia!" 

"  Thank  God,  my  boy — thank  God!"  murmured  the  old 
man. 

And  so  the  chains  were  drawn  more  tightly  round  Dane,  and 
as  they  were  being  thus  drawn,  a  spider  was  weaving  a  web 
round  Lyra  Chester,  the  girl  whom  Dane  loved — a  spider  not 
ugly  and  repulsive  in  form,  but  sleek  and  exquisite — a  very 
cunning  spider,  whose  name  was  Chandos,  alias  Geoffrey 
Barle! 


CHAPTEK  XIII. 

THE  Honorable  Chandos  Armitage,  alias  Geoffrey  Barle, 
found  himself  in  extremely  cozy  quarters,  and,  as  his  sprain 
did  not  hurt  him  very  much — though  he  made  as  much  of  it 
as  he  could,  be  sure — he  was  extremely  comfortable. 

The  spare  room  at  the  cottage  was  small  and  plainly  fur- 
nished; but  there  was,  notwithstanding,  a  daintiness  about  it 
which  gratified  Mr.  Chandos's  refined,  esthetic  taste.  The 
curtains  were  of  prettily  flowered  dimity;  there  was  a  great 
bunch  of  sweetly  smelling  flowers  on  the  table  beside  the  bed, 
and  the  diamond-framed  windows  overlooked  the  Taw. 

It  was  much  more  comfortable  and  home-like  than  a  room 
at  a  hotel,  and  Mr.  Chandos  congratulated  himself  upon  his 
refusal  to  be  removed. 

Here  he  lay  for  three  days,  quite  the  interesting  invalid  to 
Mary,  who  waited  upon  him  with  all  the  zest  which  attends  a 
novel  duty. 

"  He  do  look  such  a  gentleman,  and  he  have  got  such  a  soft, 
pleasant  voice,  for  all  the  world  like  a  woman,"  she  remarked 
to  Griffith,  who  growled  and  snarled  something  under  his 
breath  in  response. 

To  say  that  Mr.  Chandos  was  curious  about  his  host  and  hia 
beautiful  daughter,  would  be  an  altogether  inadequate  descrip- 
tion of  his  state  of  mind.  He  had  never  seen  any  one  .eo 
beaatiful — "  so  altogether  lovely/'  as  he  wculd  have  put  it 


92  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

as  Lyra  in  all  his  life,  and  in  an  artful  way  he  got  as  much  in- 
formation respecting  her  from  Mary  as  he  could. 

There  did  not  seem  much  to  tell,  for  Mary  had  not  been  in 

the  Chesters'  service  long,  and  knew  nothing  of  their  history 

previous  to  her  coming  to  the  cottage,  and,  strange  to  say,  she 

did  not  mention  Lord  Dane's  visit,  perhaps  because  Mr.  Chan- 

.  dos,  not  being  aware  of  it,  did  not  ask  any  questions. 

"  And  Miss  Lyra  lives  all  alone  here  with  her  father  and 
sees  no  one?"  he  said.  "  It  is  a  very  sad  life,  a  very  dull  ex- 
istence, Mary,  and  I  must  see  when  I  get  up  if  I  can  not 
brighten  it  a  little.  Does — ahem! — does  your  young  mistress 
ever  mention  me,  Mary?"  he  asked,  with  affected  carelessness. 

"  She  always  asks  every  morning  how  you  be,  sir,"  she  re- 
plied; "but  she  don't  say  naught  beside.  I'm  afraid  Miss 
Lyra  bean't  very  well;  she's  so  mortal  pale-looking,  and  so 
quiet  like.  Why,  Lor',  she's  quite  different  these  last  three 
days,  so  quiet  and  sad  like;  she  as  used  to  be  singing  all  day 
long,  and  romping  with  Carlo  and  the  cats,  and  always  on  the 
move;  she  don't  seem  to  care  to  do  nothing  but  sit  in  the  gar- 
den with  her  book,  and  she  don't  read,  neither,  for  I've  seen  it 
lying  turned  down  on  her  lap  for  hours;  me  nor  Griffith  can't 
think  what  ails  her.  If  the  master  were  like  any  other  father — 
which  he  bean't — he'd  send  for  the  doctor  for  to  her.  Griffith's 
mortal  cut  up  about  it,  but  he  won't  let  me  speak  to  her,  and 
gets  into  one  of  his  tantrums — and  Griffith  bean't  pleasant  in 
his  tantrums — if  I  says  she  ought  to  have  a  doctor." 

Mr.  Chandos  felt  a  pleasant  sensation  about  what  he  called 
his  heart.  Was  it  possible  that  his  charms  had  already  com- 
menced to  work  havoc  in  the  beautiful's  girl's  bosom?  Was 
it  possible  that  she  was  already  smitten  by  Love's  dart? 

It  seemed  more  than  possible  to  Mr.  Chandos;  indeed,  ex- 
ceedingly probable. 

What  a  delightful  romance  it  might  prove,  he  thought,  as 
he  lay  gazing  out  of  the  window  with  his  pale-blue  eyes,  quite 
a  too  charming  episode  in  his  life  if  he  could  win  the  love  of 
this  simple  maiden !  What  a  happy  idea  it  was,  his  giving 
a  false  name.  He  coidd  amuse  himself  with  this  romance 
as  "  Geoffrey  Barle,"  and — well,  when  tired,  could  ride  away, 
like  the  lover  hi  the  poem,  and  leave  no  traces  behind. 

He  whiled  away  the  time  thinking  of  Lyra's  beautiful  face, 
and  composing  sonnets  and  lyrics  to  her — sweet,  passionate 
verses  which  were  echoes  of  the  originals  he  had  read  but 
which  it  was  not  likely  such  an  unsophisticated  girl  as  Lyra 
would  know  anything  about. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  th'nl  day  he  sent  into  Barnstaple 


OKCE    IS    A    LIFE,  93 

for  a  guitar,  and  set  some  of  these  verses  to  a  tinkling  melody- 
which,  when  it  penetrated  to  the  sitting-room,  where  Mr.  Ches- 
ter sat  reading,  made  that  absent-minded  gentleman  stare- 
round  him  with  bewilderment. 

"  It's  only  the  gentleman  upstairs  playing  on  the  banjo,"1 
explained  Mary — to  whom  a  banjo  and  a  guitar  were  one  and. 
the  same — "  and  he  do  play  it  lovely.'* 

Mr.  Chester  groaned. 

"Oh!"  he  said,  vacantly,  "I  suppose  he  is  quite  well 
now;"  then  mentally  he  added:  "  and  able  to  go."  But  when 
Mr.  Geoffrey  Barle  came  down-stairs  in  the  afternoon  of  the 
next  day,  leaning  heavily  on  Mary,  and  looking  sweetly  inter- 
esting, he,  Mr.  Geoffrey,  did  not  hint  at  taking  his  departure. 

"  I  hope  you  are  better,"  said  Mr.  Chester,  blinking  at  him 
as  he  sunk  back  carefully  and  with  a  soft  moan  into  the  easiest 
chair. 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  murmured  Chandos.  "  I  am 
better,  but  I  fear — I  fear  I  am  not  strong  enough  to  relieve 
your  hospitality.  I  can  not  express  my  gratitude  to  you  for 
your  great,  your  tender  care  of  me.  But  for  your  kindness  I 
might" — he  shuddered — "  have  been  a  cripple  for  life." 

"  I  don't  think  a  sprain  generally  has  such  serious  results," 
remarked  Mr.  Chester,  in  his  dry,  preoccupied  manner. 

"  Not  usually,  perhaps,"  assented  Mr.  Chandos,  blandly. 
<(  But  I  am — er — peculiarly  delicate  and — er — susceptible  to 
injury,  and —  But  I  don't  see  your  daughter,  Mr.  Chester. 
I  am  anxious,  devoured  with  anxiety,  to  express  my  gratitude 
to  her." 

"  Lyra  is  in  the  garden,"  said  Mr.  Chester,  still  more  ab- 
sently, his  eyes  wandering  wistfully  to  his  book. 

Mr.  Chandos  got  up  with  surprising  ease. 

"  I'll  go  to  her  if  you  will  permit  me,"  he  said;  then  he 
suddenly  remembered  that  he  was  lame.  "  That  is,  if  you 
will  allow  your  servant  to  assist  me?"  , 

Mr.  Chester  rang  the  bell,  and  leaning  on  Mary's  arm,  and  • 
with  his  sweetest,  most  "  fetching  "  expression  on  his  face,  Mr. 
Chandos  limped  as  gracefully  as  possible  into  the  garden. 

Lyra  was  leaning  on  the  gate,  looking  over  the  river,  her 
head  resting  on  her  hand,  and  as  she  turned  at  the  sound  of 
footsteps,  Mr.  Chandos  was  struck  by  the  alteration  in  her  ap- 
pearance. She  was  very  pale,  but  it  was  not  only  her  pallor 
which  started  him.  There  was  a  look  in  her  eyes  which  was 
eloquent  of  suffering  and  sorrow,  of  the  strain  caused  by  a 
mental  struggle  and  battle.  She  looked  as  oce  looks  when  th« 


94  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

canker  worm  of  a  secret  sorrow  is  eating  into  the  bud  of  Ifie'a 
happiness. 

But  this  only  made  her  more  interesting  in  the  eyes  of  Mr. 
Chandos,  especially  as  he  was  convinced  that  he  was  the  r;ause 
of  her  unhappiness.  He  expected  to  see  her  blush  as  she 
turned  and  saw  him,  and  was  rather  disappointed  that  she  did 
not,  but  regarded  him  with  the  steady  gaze  of  her  sad,  dark 
eyes. 

"  I  hasten  to  lay  the  tribute  of  my  gratitude  at  your  feet, 
Miss  Chester,''  he  began,  in  his  "  highfalutin,"  affected  style; 
but  Lyra's  brows  grew  straight,  and  he  was  sharp  enough  to 
see  that  he  was  taking  the  wrong  line.  "  As  I  have  just  told 
Mr.  Chester,  I  can  not  express  my  sense  of  your  great  goodness 
to  me,"  he  said,  in  a  more  natural  and  respectful  tone.  "  An 
invalid,  even  when  he  or  she  is  a  member  of  the  family,  is 
always  a  burden,  but  must  be  doubly  so,  when,  like  myself, 
he  is  a  stranger.  You  have  played  the  part  of  the  Good 
Samaritan,  Miss  Chester)  with  a  perfection  which  has  ren- 
dered me  eternally  your  debtor.  I  am,  of  course,  very  anxious 
to  relieve  you  of  the  burden,  but  I  am  not  what  is  called  a 
strong  man;  I  do  not  mean,"  he  made  haste  to  add,  "  that  I 
am  weak  or — or — puny;  but  I  am  of  highly  strung  and  ex- 
tremely sensitive  nerves,  and — er — I  feel  I  shall  have  to  tres- 
pass upon  your  Arabian  hospitality  a  little  longer." 

"  My  father  will  be  very  glad  if  you  will  stay,"  said  Lyra; 
and,  as  she  spoke,  Mr.  Chandos  noticed  that  her  voice  was  low 
and  subdued,  and  that  she  uttered  the  sentence  mechanically. 
"  Will  you  not  sit  down?"  and  she  moved  toward  the  rustic 
seat. 

With  Mary's  assistance  the  invalid  got  himself  seated,  and 
striking  an  esthetic  attitude,  gazed  up  at  Lyra,  who  stood, 
with  the  climbing  roses  for  background,  pale  and  dreamy-eved, 
*  You  have  a  most  delightful,  most  picturesque  home,  Miss 
Chester,"  he  murmured,  with  the  flute  stop  on.  "It  is  an 
Arcadia — a  sweet  haven  of  rest  and  repose.  But,  tell  me,  do 
you  never  weary  of  it?  Do  you  never,  like  an  imprisoned 
bird,  sigh  for  liberty,  for  change,  for — er — life?" 

Lyra  looked  down  at  him  as  if  die  had  brought  her  thoughts 
back  to  him  from  a  long  distance. 

"  Do  I?  Am  I  never  weary,  dull?"  die  said,  as  if  she  were 
asking  the  question  of  herself. 

A  few  days  ago,  before  the  advent  of  Lord  Dane,  she  would 
have  replied  with  a  laughing  negative;  now  her  brows  came 
together,  and  there  came  no  laugh  or  smile  to  her  lips,  She 
looked  round  and  sighed.  Never  until  that  moment  had  sjoe 


1*    A    LIFE.  95 

thought  of  weariness  or  ennui,  never  felt  dull  or  lonely.  But 
now —  Yes,  he  was  right.  She  felt  like  a  bird  bruised  and 
sore  with  vain  and  futile  beatings  against  the  walls  of  its  cage. 

"  Ah!  I  see  you  do/'  murmured  Mr.  Chandos.  "  Believe 
me  that  this  life  of  yours — if  you  can  call  it  life;  it  is  really 
but  existence — is  not  worthy  of  you.  You  were  born  to  shine 
a  star  in  brighter,  happier  spheres."  Lyra  looked  at  him 
with  grave  inquiry — perhaps  she  still  thought  him  a  little  mad 
— and  Mr.  Chandos' s  pale-blue  eyes  fell  before  the  sad,  inno- 
cent orbs.  "  Do  not  think  I  natter,"  he  said,  with  mock 
earnestness.  "  I  could  not  be  guilty  of  flattery  to  one  so — er 
— so  pure  and — er — so  intelligent  as  you,  Miss  Chester.  I 
merely  uttered  the  thought  that  the  sight  of  your — er — beauty 
and  grace  aroused  within  my  mind." 

Lyra  ought  to  have  blushed — certainly  ought  to  have  looked 
down  and  been  overcome — but  she  did  neither,  rather  to  Mr. 
Chandos' s  embarrassment. 

"  You  are  fond  of  poetry,"  he  said,  rather  than  inquired. 

Lyra  said  nothing.  But  silence,  as  we  know,  gives  con- 
sent, and  Mr.  Chandos  drew  a  small,  elaborately  bound  vol- 
ume from  his  pocket — "  '  Soul  Throbs/  by  Geoffrey  Barle." 

"  My  own,"  he  said,  almost  solemnly,  as  he  held  up  the 
volume.  "  '  Soul  Throbs/  Do  you  like  the  title?" 

Lyra  looked  uninterested,  much  to  Mr.  Chandos's  disgust. 

"  Does  a  soul  throb?"  she  said,  listlessly.  "  Shouldn't  it 
be 'Heart  Throbs'?" 

Mr.  Chandos  winced. 

"  Oh,  no,  no!"  he  murmured,  in  quite  a  shocked  voice. 
"  That  would,  indeed,  be  commonplace.  Any  one,  every  one, 
says  '  heart  throbs;'  but  the  soul  is  a  different,  a — er — higher, 
a  more  esthetic  phrase.  You  feel  that,  I  am  sure." 

Lyra  neither  assented  nor  dissented,  but  turned  her  eyes 
riverward  again. 

"  May  I  read  you  my  favorite — one  of  my  favorite — lyrics?" 
he  asked,  opening  the  book. 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Lyra,  but  without  the  enthu- 
siasm which  Mr.  Chandos  certainly  considered  proper,  if  not 
obligatory. 

He  cleared  his  throat,  and  with  half-closed  eyes  whkJfe 
Watched  her,  he  commenced: 

"  No  linnet  I,  to  sing  on  topmost  bough, 

No  lark  to  soar  to  heaven's  gate; 
But  if  I  sing  my  best,  wilt  thou 
Sing  sweetly  to  me,  oh!  my  mate?" 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  only  tke  last  word  caught  Lyra's  at* 


96  ONCE    Itf    A    LIFE. 

tention,  for  when  he  paused  and  looked  up  at  her  inquiringly, 
she  said,  with  a  little  confusion,  for  she  did  not  want  to 
•wound  him: 

"  It  is  a  sea-song.  The  Devonshire  people  are  very  fond  of 
them,  and  sing  them  all  along  the  river — " 

She  saw  by  the  horrified  expression  of  his  washed-out  eyes 
that  she  had  made  a  mistake,  and  waited. 

"  A  sea-song!"  he  exclaimed. 

"  There — there,  was  something  about  a  male,  wasn't  there?" 
said  Lyra,  eager  to  soothe  him. 

Mr.  Chandos  went  pale  with  mortification. 

"  Oh,  no,  no!"  he  murmured,  reproachfully.  "  The  mate 
alluded  to  was  a — a — companion,  a — er — kindred  soul." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Lyra.  "  It — it  was  very  stupid 
of  me.  But  will  you  not  read  some  more?  I  will  try  and, 
umderstand  them." 

The  apology  was  almost  worse  than  the  offense,  in  Mr. 
Chandos' s  eyes;  but  he  stifled  his  disgust  and  disappointment, 
and  read  another  choice  extract.  Lyra  sat  down  and  seemed 
to  listen,  her  hands  clasped,  her  lovely  profile  turned  to  him. 
If  she  had  sat  full  face  to  him,  he  would  have  seen  that  he 
might  as  well  have  been  reading  to  a  statue. 

"  It  is  very  pretty,"  she  said,  when  he  had  finished. 

Mr.  Chandos  with  difficulty  suppressed  a  groan. 

"  Pretty!"  Such  a  word  applied  to  one  of  his  "  Soul 
Throbs  "  was  an  insult.  He  forgot  his  lameness  and  rose, 
then  sunk  down,  and  once  more  stifled  his  disappointment. 

"  Er — pardon  me — '  pretty  '  is  perhaps  scarcely  the  word  to 
apply  to  the  verses,"  he  said.  "  But  I  am  sure  you  appreciate 
tnem.  Er — while  a  prisoner  in  my  room,  I  wrote  some  new 
stanzas.  I  will,  if  you  care  to  hear  them  and  will  allow  me 
to  send  for  my — er — guitar — sing  them  to  you?" 

Mary  was  at  the  door  at  the  moment,  and  brought  the 
guitar. 

Mr.  Chandos  struck  a  suitable  attitude,  and,  his  eyes  cast 
up  at  Lyra  with  an  expression  of  deep  despair,  piped  away  in 
the  thin  voice  which  was  so  much  admired  by  his  female 
friends.  The  verses  were  quite  equal  in  pathos  to  those  he 
had  read.  The  dealt  in  the  usual  "  laurel  wreath  "  and 
"  death;"  "  love  "  and  "  dove;"  "  grave  "  and  "  passion's 
slave;"  and,  though  Lyra  did  not  know  it,  were  really  ad- 
dressed to  her. 

The  performance  would  have  been,  if  not  a  success,  at  any 
rate  a  tolerable  one,  if  Lyra  had  not  chanced  to  glance  at  th» 
anger  when  he  was  fluting  out  the  most  impassioned 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  8? 

But  she  did  so  chance  to  glance,  and  the  sight  of  his  upturned 
eyes,  "  like  to  those  of  a  dying  duck  in  a  thunder-storm/ '  his 
sleek  head  all  on  one  side,  like  that  of  a  piping  bullfinch,  ana 
his  lackadaisical  expression  generally,  were  too  much  for  her. 

W retched  as  she  was,  aching  though  her  heart  was  with  the 
memory  of  Dane,  she  could  not  help  laughing.  The  laugh 
was  one  of  pain  as  much  as  of  mirth,  and  it  did  not  last  long. 
It  died  away  on  her  lips  as  suddenly  as  the  effect  it  produced 
upon  the  singer.  His  face  went  crimson  and  then  white,  his 
pale-blue  eyes  grew  lighter — not  darker — and  seemed  to  glow 
with  rage,  and  his  thin  lips  were  distorted  with  the  passion  of 
wounded  vanity  and  self-conceit. 

Lyra  was  not  frightened,  but  she  was  startled.  He  had 
risen  and  confronted  her,  his  hands  clutching  the  guitar,  his 
mouth  half  open. 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  Forgive  me,  please  forgive  me," 
she  said,  brokenly.  "  I  can  not  tell  what  made  me  laugh.  I 
am  so  sorry.  Will  you  " — she  tried  to  say  "  sing  it  again," 
but  she  dared  not,  for  she  knew  that  heavily  though  her  sud- 
den misery  bore  upon  her,  if  he  sung  again  she  must  laugh 
again  or  die. 

Mr.  Chandos  seemed  to  struggle  for  breath. 

"  No-o,"  he  gasped  at  last. 

He  had  never  been  laughed  at — openly — and  he  was  writh- 
ing as  a  man  writhes  under  the  lash  of  a  delicate  whip,  that 
for  all  its  slightness  stings  like  a  scorpion. 

"  Forgive  me/'  she  said  again,  and  she  put  her  hand  gently, 
pleadingly  on  his  arm,  and  as  she  did  so  tears  came  into  her 
eyes.  "  I  did  not  mean  to  do  it.  It  was  rude  and — yes,  cruel 
to  laugh.  It  was  ungrateful,  after — after  your  kindness  in 
taking  so  much  trouble.  Will  you  forgive  me,  Mr.  Barle?" 

Chaudos's  eyes  drooped  and  he  sunk  down  again,  both  his 
hands  quivering  round  the  neck  of  the  guitar,  his  thin  lips 
writhing  still. 

"Yes — y-es,"  he  stammered,  as  if  he  were  fighting  with 
himself.  "  There — there  is  nothing  to  forgive.  I  do  not  sup- 
pose," with  a  tone  of  dignity  which  was  excruciatingly  comi- 
cal, "  I  do  not  imagine  for  a  moment  that  you  were  laughing 
at — at  my  verses.  Something — some  passing  incident  must 
have  caught  your  attention  " — Lyra  hung  her  head — "  and 
you  were  laughing  at  that.  But  I  will  not  sing  again.  To 
appreciate  these  poor  little  poems  of  mine,  one  must  be  in  the 
mood.  Will  you  take  this  volume?  See,  I  have  ventured  to 
anticipate  your  gracious  acceptance,  and  have  written  your 
name  in  it.  Will  you  take  it  and — er — stuclj  it  in  quiet  and 

4 


98  ONCE    IN    A    tI?E. 

Beclusion?  You  may — er — find  some  thought  in  harmony 
with  your  sweet  nature,  your  scarcely  uttered  aspirations." 

Lyra  rose  and  took  the  proffered  volume. 

"  Thank  you/'  she  said,  humbly.  "  It  is  very  kind  of  you, 
I — I  will  send  Mary." 

As  she  left  him,  Mr.  Chandos  leaned  back  and  gave  vent  to 
the  rage  that  had  been  choking  him — gave  vent  to  a  long 
stream  of  muttered  oaths,  hissed  act  with  hot,  savage  gasps, 
his  face  working,  his  lips  twitching. 

"  You  laugh  at  me,  do  you?"  he  stammered.  "  You  laugh, 
you — you  " — he  tried  "  cat,"  but  even  at  that  moment  of 
ferocious  anger,  the  name  struck  him  as  inappropriate  to  the 
sweet-faced  girl  who  had  just  left  him — "you  insolent  plow- 
girl!  Laugh  on,  but — but  only  for  a  time!"  He  ground  his 
teeth.  "  If  I  could  only  bring  the  tears  to  those  eyes  of 
yours,  if  I  could  only  have  you  cringing  at  my  feet!  I  will, 
too!"  he  hissed  out.  "  Yes  " — he  swore  it  with  a  charmingly 
original  oath—"  I  will!" 

Mary,running  in,  found  her  patient  on  the  verge  of  an  apo- 
plectic fit. 

"  Lawks  sakes,  sir!"  she  exclaimed.  "  Why,  what  be  the 
matter?  You  haven't  gone  and  swallowed  soment  the  wrong 
way,  hev  ye?" 

Mr.  Chandos  with  some  difficulty  smoothed  his  distorted  face 
into  something  like  its  usual  expression  of  serene  self-conceit, 
and  forced  a  ghastly  smile. 

"  Er — er — I  have  had  a  fit  of  coughing,  my  good  Mary," 
he  stammered.  "  I — er — think  I  must  have  taken  a  chill. 
Will  you  kindly  lead  me  back  to  my  room?" 

Most  men,  after  such  a  repulse  and  humiliation,  would  have 
taken  their  departure;  but  Mr.  Chandos  was  unlike  most  men. 

He  lay  on  his  bed  and  tossed  to  and  fro,  hot  one  moment 
and  cold  the  next,  as  Lyra's  innocent  laugh  rang  in  his  ears — 
lay  and  thought,  thought  and  planned. 

It  is  asserted,  by  those  who  ought  to  know,  that  it  is  quite 
possible  for  a  certain  order  of  beings  to  love  and  hate  at  one 
and  the  same  moment.  If  that  be  so,  Mr.  Chandos  belonged 
to  this  peculiar  order.  One  moment  his  admiration  for  Lyra, 
his  longing  to  win  her,  got  possession  of  him;  the  next  hate, 
hot  and  sinister,  obtained  the  mastery.  But,  predominating 
above  these  flashes  of  love— if  you  can  call  it  love — and  hate, 
was  the  burning  desire  to  get  her  in  his  power,  to  see  her  at 
his  feet,  to  hear  her  begging,  wailing  for  mercy,  the  mercy 
•which  he  would  grant  or  withhold  as  suited  his  humor. 

He  lay  awake  for  hours,  his  cunning  brain  striving  after 


O:NCE  iir  A  LIFE.  99 

some  means  to  enable  him  to  gain  the  desired  revenge,  and  fell 
asleep  at  last,  dreaming  that  he  was  sinking  down  a  deep  well, 
and  Lyra  was  standing  at  the  top  laughing  down  at  him. 

In  the  gray  dawn  he  woke,  and  almost  at  the  moment  of 
waking  there  flashed  into  his  mind  one  of  those  ideas  with 
which  the  basest  of  men  are  sometimes  inspired  by  the  devil 
they  serve. 

It  made  him  start;  it  sent  the  blood  rushing  to  his  head;  it 
made  him  laugh,  a  laugh  which  might  have  found  an  echo 
down  in  the  regions  of  lost  souls. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  following  day  Mr.  Chandos  kept  to  his  own  room,  send- 
ing word  to  Mr.  Chester  that  he  feared  he  had  got  up  too 
soon,  and  felt  very  much  weakened  by  the  effort. 

He  dispatched  Mary  to  Barnstaple  for  books  and  writing  and 
drawing  materials,  and  amused  himself  by  composing  some 
"  poems  "  and  making  sketches. 

The  poems  were  about  a  "  scorned  love,'*  and  the  sketches 
weak,  washy  ones  of  the  river.  As  he  sat  at  the  window  mak- 
ing these,  he  saw  Lyra  go  in  and  out  the  garden,  and  his  pale- 
blue  eyes  watched  her  from  behind  the  curtain  with  a  peculiar 
expression,  half  wistful  and  longing  and  half  malicious;  an  ex- 
pression one  sometimes  sees  in  the  monkey,  and  now  and 
again  in  the  tiger. 

He  noticed  that  she  was  pale  and  sad-looking,  and  once,  as 
she  paced  the  garden,  he  heard  her  sigh. 

In  the  afternoon  he  saw  her  go  down  to  the  boat,  push  it 
into  the  rising  tide,  and  row  to  the  middle  of  the  river.  A 
sand-bank  caught  it  there,  and  he  watched  her  as  she  leaned 
forward,  and,  letting  her  face  drop  in  her  hand,  seemed  lost  in 
a  melancholy  reverie. 

"  Can  she  be  fretting  after  me,  after  all?"  thought  Mr. 
Chandos.  "  What  else  can  she  be  brooding  over?  There 
can't  be  any  other  person  or  I  should  have  heard  of  him  from 
Mary." 

The  thought  soothed  him  considerably,  and  he  continued  to 
watch  her  until  in  the  evening  she  slowly  rowed  the  boat  home- 
ward. 

The  following  day  he  came  down  after  lunch  and  found  Lyra 
just  setting  out  for. the  boat. 

She  had  almost  forgotten  him  during  the  preceding  day, 
and  she  greeted  him  with  a  gentle  sweetness — for  though  she 
iiad  forgotten  him  she  had  not  forgiven  herself  for  wounding 


100  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

his  feelings.  That  rejoiced  Mr.  Chandos  who,  on  his  part, 
was  meekness  and  humility  itself.  His  little  bow,  his  whole 
manner  seemed  to  say:  "  You  have  wounded  me  to  the  heart's 
core,  but  I  forgive  you!" 

"  I  hope  you  are  better?"  said  Lyra,  in  her  low,  sweet,  and, 
alas!  now  sad  voice. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Chandos,  plaintively.  "  I  feel  much 
stronger  this  morning.  I '  am  afraid  I  overdid  it  yesterday. 
What  a  lovely  day;  you  are  going  out  in  the  boat?"  he  added, 
glancing  at  the  oar  in  her  hand,  and  then  at  the  river  flowing 
like  liquid  gold  in  the  sunshine. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  listlessly.  Then  it  occurred  to  her  that 
he  might  like  to  go.  "  Would  you  like  to  come  with  me?  Are 
you  strong  enough?" 

"  I  should  like  it  above  all  things,"  responded  Mr.  Chandos, 
suppressing  his  eagerness,  "  and  I  am  sure  the  air  would  do 
me  good." 

"  Come,, then,"  she  said;  and,  by  way  of  atoning  for  her 
cruelty  of  the  day  before,  she  added:  "  And  will  you  bring 
your  guitar?" 

"  Shall  I?"  he  asked,  looking  at  her  with  an  humble,  dog- 
like  air.  "Yes,  I  will." 

Mary  helped  him  down  to  the  boat,  and  he  was  ensconced  on 
a  cushion  in  the  stern,  with  another  cushion  for  his  wounded 
leg,  and  Lyra  rowed  from  shore. 

"  How  exquisitely  you  row!"  he  said,  after  watching  her 
with  a  longing  admiration  which  he  concealed  as  well  as  he 
could  under  bis  lowered  lids.  "  It  is  a  graceful  and  delightful 
accomplishment. ' ' 

"  I  am  used  to  it,"  said  Lyra,  absently;  for  they  had  reached 
the  spot  where  Dane  had  nearly  gone  down,  and  she  was 
thinking  of  him. 

"  I  wish  you  would  teach  me,  when  I  recover,"  said  Mr. 
Chandos,  with  a  little  sigh,  and  strumming  on  his  guitar. 

"  I.  will,  if  you  wish  it,"  she  said,  still  absently.  "  It  is 
not  difficult  to  learn." 

'You  must  be  very  strong,"  he  said,  after  a  pause. 
;<  Would  you  mind  my  making  a  sketch  of  you  while  you  are 
rowing?  It  would  make  a  beautiful  picture.  I  should  call  it 
'  Youth  at  the  Oars,'  and— perhaps— exhibit  it  at  the  Acad- 
emy." 

It  was  well  Mr.  Chandos  said  "  perhaps,"  as  there  was  as 
much  chance  of  any  sketch  of  his  getting  into  the  Academy 
as  of  his  being  wafted  to  heaven. 

"  If  you  like,"  she  said,  indifferently. 


IN    A    LIFE.  101 

He  took  out  his  sketch-book  and  made  his  feebls  sketch, 
talking  the  while. 

"  Ycu  have  never  seen  the  Academy  Exhibition?" 

She  shook  her  head.  She  wished  that  he  would  not  talk: 
he  was  bearable  while  he  was  silent. 

'*  Ah,  what  a  pity!  How  I  should  like  to  show  it  to  you! 
You  would  revel  hi  the  pictures,  for  I  know  that  you  have  an 
artist's  soul;  one  sees  it  in  your  eyes.  There  is  no  place  like 
London;  one  lives  there,  but  only  exists  elsewhere.  It  is  in 
London  one  finds  one's  life's  work;  there  is  work  for  all 
there." 

Lyra  leaned,  on  her  oars  and  looked  at  him  dreamily,  with- 
out seeing  him.  Her  heart  was  filled  with  an  aching  desire 
for  something  to  do;  something  that  should  help  her  to  forget 
Dane — help  her  to  stifle,  crush  out  the  misery  of  her  love  for 
him.  Here  everything  reminded  her  of  him — brought  him  be- 
fore her  mental  vision  all  day  long;  the  garden,  the  roses,  the 
river — most  of  all  the  river — the  valley. 

"One  is  wasted  in  the  country,"  went  on  Mr.  Chandos, 
speaking  carelessly,  as  if  wrapped  in  his  sketch.  "  Beautiful 
as  it  is,  it  palls  on  one  in  time;  the  human  soul  needs  change. 
I  think  you  would  like  London,  Miss  Lyra;  you  would  find 
kindred  spirits  there.  Here  " — he  shrugged  his  shoulders — 
' '  here  among  farmers  and  such  like  persons  you  are  wasted — 
wasted.  London  is  life.  There  are  concerts,  divine  music, 
theaters,  the  ever-moving,  ever-changing  crowd;  humanity 
at  its  best  and  brightest.  You  would  shine  there." 

Lyra  smiled  sadly  and  faintly.  "Why  was  he  always  harping 
on  this? 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  shine.  You  spoke  of  work.  What  work 
could  one  so  ignorant  as  I  do?" 

She  asked  the  question  with  no  definite  object;  but  Mr. 
Chandos  caught  the  yearning  in  her  voice,  the  yearning  of 
which  she  herself  was  totally  unconscious. 

"  Oh,  believe  me,  there  is  a  great  deal  you  could  do,"  he 
said,  glancing  at  her,  and  then  bending  over  his  sketch. 
"  You  could  engage  yourself  as  a  governess." 

Lyra  laughed. 

'  'In  all  London  there  would  not  be  one  more  ignorant, ?i 
she  said,  half  to  herself. 

"Believe  me,  you  do  yourself  an  injustice,"  he  rejoined. 
"  I  have  seen  in  the  sitting-room  the  books  you  have  read? 
you  speak — forgive  me — with  the  truest  refinement;  you  would 
have  no  difficulty  in  getting  a  situation.  But  if  you  do  noi 
care  for  teaching  you  could  learn  to  paint,  to  sing — " 


103  ONCE    IK    A   LIFE. 

Lyra  looked  at  him  with  mild  incredulity. 

"  Or,"  he  went  on,  "  there  are  hundreds  'of  persons— old 
and  middle-aged  ladies  who  are  alone  in  the  world — who  would 
be  only  too  grateful  to  have  you  for  a  companion." 

"  A  companion?"  said  Lyra. 

"  Yes;  to  write  their  letters,  to  read  to  them,  to  bestow 
upon  them  the  invaluable,  the  priceless  boon  of  your  society 
and  sympathy.  Believe  me,  Miss  Lyra,  you  were  not  meant 
to  live  alone  in  this  solitary,  desolate  place.  You  should  go 
to  London,  the  great  city  that  throbs  with  life  and — er — the 
joy  of  living." 

Lyra  looked  at  him. 

"  I  am  not  alone,"  she  said,  with  faint  surprise.  "  I  have 
my  father;  you  forget." 

Mr.  Chandos  coughed. 

"  Ah,  yes!  I  forgot,"  he  mtirmured.  "  But  surely  he  loves 
you  too  well,  he  is  not  so  selfish  as  to  desire  to  sacrifice  your 
young,  your  beautiful  life,  your  many  gifts —  He  stopped, 
for  he  saw  by  the  expression  of  her  face,  as  she  bent  to  the 
oars  again,  that  she  had  ceased  to  listen  to  him. 

They  rowed  down  the  river  against  the  tide,  and  Mr.  Chan- 
dos, having  finished  his  sketch,  held  it  away  from  him,  and 
surveyed  it  with  his  head  one  side,  waiting  for  her  to  ask  to 
see  it;  but  as  she  did  not  do  so,  indeed,  appeared  to  have  for- 
gotten it,  he  said,  rather  plaintively: 

"  Do  you  not  wish  to  see  my  poor  attempt  to  portray  you, 
Miss  Lyra?" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said,  apologetically;  and  she  took 
the  sketch. 

Mr.  Chandos  possessed  some  little  skill,  and  he  had  not 
sketched  her  very  badly;  indeed,  he  had  contrived  to  flatter 
her  by  some  extraordinary  fluke. 

Lyra  smiled. 

!<  Why  do  you  smile?"  he  murmured,  reproachfully.  "  Am 
I  doomed  always  to  provoke  your  laughter? 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  said  Lyra.  "I  smiled  because  " — she 
paused,  then  said  with  listiess  frankness — "  it  is  too  good  for 
me." 

'  No,  no,"  he  said,  with  genuine  eagerness.  "  It  is  not,  it 
is  not.  No  one  could  do  you  justice.  Ah,  do  you  not  know 
— have  you  no  mirror  to  tell  you  how  beautiful  you  are?" 

Lyra  flushed  to  the  brow,  and  laid  the  sketch  down  with  a 
quiet  dignity  which  made  Mr.  Chandos  wince. 

"  I— I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  humbly:  "  but— but  it 
is  the  truth/' 


ONCE    IN    A    LI*E.  103 

Lyra  looked  over  his  head,  the  flush  faded,  her  face  pals 
again,  and  rowed  on  in  silence,  Mr.  Chandos  hanging  his  head 
like  a  scolded  school-boy. 

The  boat  drifted  near  the  shore,  and,  looking  up,  he  saw 
some  ruins  in  the  shape  of  a  church  standing  amidst  some 
trees. 

"  What  is  that?"  he  asked,  pointing  to  them. 

"  That  is  an  old  church,  St.  Mark's/'  she  murmured. 

"  How  beautiful,  how  interesting,"  he  murmured. 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  it?"  she  asked.  "  We  can  land 
here,  and  it  is  only  a  few  steps  from  the  shore/* 

"  I  fear  that  I  can  not  traverse  even  a  few  steps  without 
assistance,  and  I  could  not  trouble  you,"  he  said,  wistfully. 

She  put  the  boat's  nose  shoreward. 

"  I  will  help  you,"  she  said,  sweetly. 

She  drew  the  boat  on  to  the  beach  and  helped  him  out,  and 
gave  him  her  arm;  the  color  crept  into  Mr.  Chandos 's  face, 
and  his  eyes  dropped  as  he  took  it,  and  his  sordid  little  heart 
beat. 

All  unconscious  of  the  effect  she  produced  on  him,  Lyra  led 
him  into  the  ruined  church,  and  he  looked  round. 

"  It  would  make  a  charming  picture,"  he  murmured.  ee  I 
should  call  it,  '  I  Once  Have  Been.'  It  would  create  a  sensa- 
tion in  London." 

A  portion  of  the  church  was  still  hi  fairly  good  preserva- 
tion, and  it  was  shut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  ruins  by  a  door 
of  rough  planking. 

"  Why,  what  is  this?"  he  asked,  stopping  before  it. 

"  It  is  a  portion  of  the  church  that  has  been  kept  up/'  said 
Lyra.  * '  Service  is  held  here  sometimes.  It  is  for  the  fisher- 
men at  Peterel,  and  they  come  over  in  their  boats  to  it  when 
the  roads  are  too  bad  for  them  to  get  to  Barnstaple.  Would 
you  like  to  see  the  inside?" 

Mr.  Chandos  admitted  that  he  should,  and  Lyra  thrust  her 
hand  among  the  ivy  growing  thickly  about  the  extemporized 
door  and  drew  out  a  key. 

"  Are  you  the  lady  warden?"  he  asked,  with  a  smile. 

"  No,"  she  said,  simply;  "  but  I  know  that  the  key  is  kept 
here." 

She  opened  the  door  as  they  passed  hi.  Their  entrance 
startled  an  owl  from  its  day-dreams,  and  it  flew  hooting  over 
their  heads. 

Mr.  Chandos  looked  round  with  idle  curiosity.  This  rem- 
nant of  the  old  church  had  been  made  as  decent  as  possible. 
There  was  an  old  weather-beaten  communion-table,  and  some 


J04  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

roughly  made  pews,  and  seats  with  books  on  them.     Bat  the 
place  smelled  damp  and  musty,  as  all  rarely  used  buildings  do. 

"  And  there  is  service  here  sometimes?"  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  said  Lyra,  in  a  low  voice.     The  quiet  serenity,  the 
semi-religious  light  of  the  place,  soothed  her  troubled  heart. 
:  "  Yes;    the  fisher-folk  are  often  married  here,  and  always 
bring  their  children  to  be  christened.     They  believe  that  it  se- 
cures good  fortune  for  the  little  ones." 

Mr.  Chandos  listened  rather  absently  at  first,  then  his  face 
changed,  and  he  glanced  round  him  and  at  her  sad,  preoccu- 
pied face. 

"  They  marry  here?"  he  said.  :t  When — when  was  the 
last  wedding,  do  you  remember?" 

Lyra  thought  for  a  moment. 

.  "  In  the  spring — this  spring,"  she  said.     "  Shall  we  go 
now?" 

1 '  Yes,"  he  said.  As  they  passed  out  he  murmured:  "I 
should  like  to  be  married  there.  Should  not  you,  Miss  Lyra?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  simply,  unconscious  of  his  melt- 
ing gaze. 

As  they  drifted  home  with  the  tide,  Mr.  Chandos  was  re- 
markably silent;  and  when  she  helped  him  out  of  the  boat 
and  up  to  the  house,  he  only  said: 

"  Thank  you  very  much  for  all  your  kindness,  your  great 
kindness  to  me,  Miss  Lyra." 

She  went  straight  to  his  room  and  remained  there,  and  he 
spent  some  hours  neither  sketching  nor  writing,  but  leaning 
back  in  his  chair,  softly  biting  at  nis  under  lip  and  staring 
across  the  Taw  from  under  his  lowered  lids.  For  Mr.  Chau- 
dos  was  thinking  hard,  very  hard. 

In  the  gloaming  he  saw  Lyra  go  down  the  garden  path  to 
the  shore;  and  Mary,  entering  the  room  a  moment  afterward, 
he  remarked,  casually: 

''  Was  that  Miss  Lyra  I  saw  go  out  just  now?" 
'  Yes,  sir;  she  be  gone  to  Greely's  to  borrow  the  paper  foi 
i  master." 

"Why  didn't  you  or  the  man  Griffith  go?"  asked  Mr. 
Chandos,  quite  as  if  Lyra  were  his  property. 

"  Griffith  be  gone  for  wood,  and  I've  got  to  go  to  Barn- 
staple,"  replied  Mary.  "  So  I've  just  come  up  to  bring  you 
the  light  and  ask  if  there's  anything  vou'll  want  before  I  come 
back?'' 

"  No,  no;  thank  you,  my  good  Mary,"  said  Mr.  Chandos, 
with  a  sight  *'  Er — unless — er — you  will  be  kind  enough  to 
bring  me  a  bottle  of  whisky  with  you.  I  think  I  should  like 


OHCE   IN   A    LITE.  105 

to  rub  my  foot  with  it.  Whisky's  an  excellent  thing  for  a 
sprain. ' ' 

"  All  right,  sir,"  sa:d  Mary,  taking  the  money.  She 
groaned  as  she  went  out,  for  she  was  not  by  any  means  a  fool. 

Half  an  hour  later  Mr.  Chandos  heard  the  garden  gate  open. 
He  got  up — without  any  difficulty — and  went  to  the  window  to 
get  a  glimpse  of  the  girl  who  was  now  never  out  of  his 
thoughts;  but  instead  of  Lyra's  slim,  graceful  figure,  he  saw 
a  tall,  thin  man  coming  up  the  path. 

He  was  not  a  Peterel  fisherman  or  Bamstaple  farmer — the 
only  kind  of  visitors  Mr.  Chandos  had  as  yet  seen — but  a  man 
with  the  unmistakable  London  stamp.  He  was  dressed  in 
London  clothes,  wore  a  London  tall  silk  hat,  and  carried  a 
London  umbrella. 

The  visitor  knocked  and  waited;  then  Mr.  Chandos  heard 
him  open  the  door  and  enter. 

A  moment  afterward  he  heard  a  sound  something  between 
a  groan  and  a  cry  of  alarm  proceed  from  the  sitting-room  be- 
low. 

It  startled  Mr.  Chandos  pretty  considerably,  and  it  filled 
him  with  a  burning,  an  intolerable  curiosity. 

He  waited  for  a  moment  or  two,  then  heard  voices;  the 
weak,  reedy  one  of  Mr.  Chester,  and  a  harsh,  unsympathetic 
one;  presumably  the  strange  visitor's. 

Mr.  Chandos  drew  off  his  boots  quickly,  opened  his  door 
cautiously,  and  then  as  cautiously  and  noiselessly  stole  down 
the  stairs,  and,  crouching  beside  the  closed  door  of  the  parlor, 
listened. 


CHAPTEK  XV. 

THE  high-souled  poet,  the  exquisite  and  accomplished  Mr. 
Chandos,  crouched  down  beside  the  parlor  door  and  listened. 
For  a  moment  or  two  the  voices  came  to  him  in  a  confused 
murmur,  but  presently  he  managed  to  hear  what  was  going  on. 

"  You  must  have  known  that  this  must  have  happened  some 
day  or  other,"  said  the  stranger. 

Mr.  Chester  groaned. 

"  I — I — didn't  think,  I  forgot,"  he  groaned. 

"Ah!"  retorted  the  visitor,  grimly.  "  That's  just  like  yon 
— jusfe  like  gentlemen  of  your  sort.  You  didn't  look  forward. 
Now,  a  business  man — 

"  Fm  not  a  business  man;  I  never  was  a  business  man/r 
dghed  Mr.  Chester. 


106  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

The  other  laughed,  not  exactly  unfeelingly,  but  in  a  dreary 
kind  of  way. 

"  No,  I  suppose  not,  or  you  wouldn't  have  done  this  sort  of 
thing.     What  a  pity  it  is  that  folks  like  you  are  ever  taught  to 
write!    Talk  about  universal  education!    Seems  to  me  that 
one  half  the  people  hi  the  world  would  be  happier  if  they'd  ; 
never  learned  to  put  then*  pens  to  paper.     Now,  if  you'd  been  I 
taught  to  write — " 

"  I — I  don't  understand  it  even  yet,"  said  Mr.  Chester,  in 
a  hoarse  voice.  "  Try  and  explain  it  to  me.  Tell  me  slowly 
— slowly,  Mr.  Jarvin." 

The  man  addressed  as  Jarvin  "  clucked  "  his  lips  half  pity- 
ingly, half  contemptuously. 

"  You  mean  to  say  you  don't  understand?  Lord!  a  baby 
would  understand  it." 

"I — I  am  worse  than  a  child  in  these  matters!"  groaned 
Mr.  Chester. 

Mr.  Jarvin  clucked  his  lips  again. 

"  'Pon  my  soul,  I  think  you  are!  Look  here."  (Mr. 
Chandos  crouched  on  his  knee  to  the  key-hole,  and  saw  the 
visitor,  who  was  seated  on  the  extreme  edge  of  a  chair,  strike 
a  folded  paper  with  his  forefinger.)  "  Seven  years  ago — or  as 
good  as  seven  years  ago — you  borrowed  five  hundred  pounds  of 
Levy  Moss.  It  is  evident  that  you  don't  know  much  about 
business,  or  you  wouldn't  borrow  five  hundred  farthings  of 
such  a  man  as  Moss!"  Mr.  Chester  sighed.  "  But  you  do 
borrow  it,  and  you  pay — do  you  know  how  mudh  interest  you 

Eay?    No,  I'll  be  sworn  you  don't!"     Mr.  Chester  shook" his 
ead  and  groaned.     "  Not  you!    That's  the  last  question  gen- 
tlemen like  you  trouble  yourselves  about.     Well,  I  should  say 
you  paid  sixty  per  cent,  at  the  very  least." 

"  That  is  a  great  deal,"  murmured  Mr.  Chester. 
Mr.  Jarvin  laughed. 

"  I  should  think  so!  But  you  didn't  pay  so  much  as  some 
men  I  know,  after  all.  Well,  Levy  Moss  renews  this  bill  from 
time  to  time,  and  you  go  on  paying  the  interest;  and,  I  dare  j 
say,  good  old  Moss  would  have  let  the  bill  run  till  doomsday 
so  long  as  you  were  good  enough  to  pay  him  his  sixty  per  cent; 
but  unfortunately,  or,  fortunately  for  you,  as  it  may  turn  out, 
Moss  makes  a  bad  spec — the  cutest  of  these  chaps  do  sometimes 
— and  has  to  realize,  and  he  had  to  hand  over  the  bill  to  me 
for  money  owing.  And  you  may  bet  he  didn't  pay  me  sixty 
per  cent,"  remarked  Mr.  Jarvin,  viciously. 

Mr.  Chester  blinked  and  groaned. 


OXCE    HT    A    LIFE.  107 

"  Then— then  if  I  understand  it,  I  owe  the  money  to  you?" 
he  said,  falteringly. 

"  You  do,"  asserted  Mr.  Jarvin,  gravely.  "Every  penny 
of  it." 

"  Then — then — why  can't  I  go  on  owing  it  for — for  a  little 
longer?"  asked  Mr.  Chester,  not  unnaturally.  "  I — I  can  pay 
the  interest. " 

Mr.  Jarvin  shook  his  head. 

"  Sorry,"  he  said,  shutting  his  lips  tight.  "But  I  can't 
manage  it.  For  one  thing,  I'm  not  sure,  from  all  I  hear,  that 
you  can  go  on  paying  the  interest,  and  for  another,  I  want  the 
money.  The  market's  tight,  very  tight,  and  it's  as  much  as  I 
can  do  to  keep  my  head  above  water.  I  want — understand 
me,  Mr.  Chester — I  want  this  five  hundred,  and  I  must  have 
it.  It's  best  to  be  plain  and  straightforward,  isn't  it?  That's 
my  way;  whatever  I  am,  I'm  plain  and  straightforward.  I 
always  say  what  I  mean ;  and  when  I  say  that  I  must  have 
this  money,  why,  I  mean  it,  I  really  do." 

Mr.  Chandos  saw  Mr.  Chester  lean  back  and  put  his  hand 
to  his  eyes — a  pitiable  spectacle,  which,  however,  drew  pity 
from  neither  Mr.  Jarvin's  nor  Mr.  Chandos's  breast. 

"  I — I  haven't  the  money,"  Mr.  Chester  said,  at  last,  rais- 
ing his  eyes  to  the  hard  ones  of  the  man  who  sat  on  the  edge 
of  the  chair  and  stared  like  a  stone  image  at  his  distress. 

"  That  won't  do,  Mr.  Chester — it  won't,  indeed,"  he  said, 
remonstratingly.  "  It  really  won't  do.  You've  had  this 
money,  you  know,  or  part  of  it,  for  I  suppose  old  Moss  de- 
ducted the  first  year's  interest?" 

"  He  did." 

"Just  so.  I  thought  so,  but  it's  no  business  of  mine.  Moss 
is  hard,  very  hard,  always;  but  I'm  not.  I've  given  five  hun- 
dred gold  sovereigns  for  this  bill,  or  as  good  as  five  hundred 
sovereigns,  and  I  must  have  'em  back;  now,  mustn't  I?" 

"  But — but  if  I  haven't  the  money?"  pleaded  Mr.  Chester j 
"and  I  haven't." 

Mr.  Jarvin  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  glanced  round  the 
poorly  furnished  room,  as  if  he  were  taking  a  mental  inven- 
tory. 

"  I'm  sorry,  very  sorry;  as  much  for  my  sake  as  ^pr  your 
own;  for,  from  what  I  can  see,  I'm  afraid  the  sticks  won't 
realize  half,  quarter  the  sum.'' 


103  ONCE    ITS    A    LIFE. 

Mr.  Chester  rose  from  his  chair,  then  sunk  back  white  arJ 
shaking. 

«  DO — do  you  mean — that — that  you  will  sell  the  furniture, 
the  house — turn  us  out?"  he  gasped. 

Mr.  Jarvin  shook  his  head  lugubriously. 

,      "  I'm  very  sorry/'  he  said,  in  a  funereal  yoice.     "  But 
'  what's  to  be  done?    You  can't  expect  me  to  lose  this  money. 
But  look  here,  Mr.  Chester;  it  needn't  come  to  selling  out. 
You  must  have  friends." 

Mr.  Chester  shook  his  head. 

"  I — I  have  no  friends,"  he  said,  huskily;  "  no  friends  at 
all.  There  is  no  one  who  would  lend  me  this  money  to  save 
my  life.  I  have  no  one  but  my  daughter  " — his  voice  broke. 
"You — you  can  not,  will  not  turn  us  both  out  into  the 
streets — a  young  girl — " 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"  Tut,  tut!"  said  Mr.  Jarvin,  in  his  dry,  raspy  manner. 
"  This  is  very — er — disagreeable;  it  is  indeed.  I'm  very  sorry 
for  you  and  the  young  lady;  but  what  can  I  do?"  and  he 
spread  his  hands  out  with  an  injured  air.  "  I  do  hate  having 
to  do  business  with  unbusiness-like  persons.  Just  remember, 
Mr.  Chester,  that  I'm  only  asking  my  fair  due.  Come,  I'm 
sure  you  can  get  this  money.  You  must  have  had  some 
money  some  time.  What's  gone  with  it?" 

Mr.  Chester  looked  up  with  a  half -frightened,  half -guilty 
air. 

"  I — I — saw  an  advertisement  of  a  limited  company — a  for- 
eign— the  Bongalaboo  Tramway  Company — and  I — bought 
some  shares.  They  were  payingften  per  cent." 

Mr.  Jarvin  looked  at  him  with  a  fine  combination  of  pity 
and  contempt. 

"You  went  and  invested  in  shares,"  he  said;  "and  you 
know  as  much  about  limited  companies  as  I  know  about — 
about  the  mountains  of  the  moon;  and  I  suppose  they've  gone 
down, eh?" 

Mr.  Chester  bowed  his  head  mournfully. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  almost  inaudibly.  "  I — I  read  in  the  paper 
that  they  had;  but — but"-^-with  a  feverish  wistfulness — 
"  they  may  have  gone  up  again;  increased  in  value.  I  have 
sent  for  a  newspaper.  I  shall  see." 

Mr.  Jarvin  rose. 

"  Dear!  oh,  dear!    Well,  all  I  can  say  is,  Mr.  Chester,  that 

nle  like  you  don't  deserve  to  have  money;  they  don't,  in. 
!    To  go  chucking  good  coin  away  in  companies!     Why 
the  most  knowing  of  us  get  bit,  and  you — "    His  feelings  ap' 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  109 

peared  too  strong  for  adequate  expression.  "  Look  here;  I'm 
afraid  you're  in  a  nice  mess;  but  perhaps  these  shares  may 
turn  out  all  right,  and  I'll  wait  a  bit  and  see.  1*11  give  you  a 
fortnight." 

Mr.  Chester  expressed  his  gratitude  in  broken,  almost  inai- 
ticulate  words. 

"  Well,  yes;  it's  unbusiness-like,"  remarked  Mr.  Jarvin, 
almost  as  if  he  were  ashamed  of  his  leniency;  "  but  I'll  do  it. 
You  shal  have  a  fortnight;  but,  mind,  that's  the  limit. 
You'll  have  to  find  the  money  by  that  time,  or  really  I  shall 
have  to  be  compelled  to — "  He  coughed,  and  polished  up  his 
hat  on  his  sleeve,  and  Mr.  Chaudos  removed  his  eye  from  the 
key-hole,  and  softly  drew  himself  up  the  stairs  as  far  as  the 
landing,  where  he  knelt  down  and  watched  through  the  bal- 
usters. 

Mr.  Chester  either  forgot  to  offer  any  hospitality  or  Mr. 
Jarvin  declined  it,  for  the  man  of  business  came  out  a  moment 
or  two  afterward  and  left  the  house. 

Mr.  Chandos  crept  up  to  his  own  room,  softly  rubbing  his 
back — he  had  got  a  crick  in  it  from  long  kneeling — and  his 
eye,  which  was  chilled  by  subjection  to  the  draught  through  the 
key-hole,  and  waited  and  listened  with  a  thoughtful  smile. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  heard  the  gate  opened,  and  Lyra's 
step  in  the  halL  He  crept  down  to  the  lobby  again  and  list- 
ened. 

"  I  have  brought  you  the  paper,  father,"  he  heard  her  say; 
then  she  stopped,  and  hi  a  tone  of  alarm  exclaimed:  "  Father, 
what  is  the  matter?  Are  you  ill?" 

"  No,  no!"  he  faltered.     "  Give  me  the  paper." 

Mr.  Chandos  could  hear  it  rustling  in  the  shaking  hands, 
and  knew,  though  he  could  not  see  her,  that  she  was  bending 
over  him,  with  tender  anxiety.  Then  came  a  low  cry  of  de- 
spair and  grief,  and  a  faint  scream  from  Lyra. 

With  the  proper  expression  of  concern  and  consternation. 
Mr.  Chandos  limped  down-stairs  and  into  the  room.  Mr. 
Chester  was  lying  back,  white  and  unconscious,  and  Lyra  was 
kneeling  by  his  side  almost  as  white  as  himself;  the  paper  lay 
beside  the  chair  where  it  had  fallen  from  the  limp  hands. 

Mr.  Chandos  behaved  like  a  ministering  angel. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed;  pray,  pray,  don't  be  alarmed,  dear, 
dear  Miss  Lyra,"  he  murmured.  "  He  has  only  faulted.  It 
is  nothing  serious.  Yes,  some  water  " — for  Lyra,  after  the 
first  moment  of  paralyzing  terror,  had  flown  for  some — "  he 
will  be  all  right  presently.  Ses,  he  is  coming  to.  Now  don't, 


110  OKOE    IK    A    LIFE. 

pray  don't  be  alarmed.  Remember,  I  am  here/'  he  added,  iU3 
if  he  were  the  whole  College  of  Physicians  rolled  into  one  man. 

"  Oh,  what  is  it?"  said  Lyra,  with  her  arm  round  her  fa- 
ther's neck,  his  head  on  her  bosom. 

"  It  is  only  a  fainting  fit;  I  am  subject  to  them  myself," 
said  Mr.  Chandos,  bathing  Mr.  Chester's  forehead,  and  deftly 
pushing  the  newspaper  out  of  sight  under  the  chair. 

Mr.  Chester  with  a  deep  sigh  came  back  to  the  world  which 
we  somehow  or  other  manage  to  make  a  very  troublous  one, 
and  as  his  eyes  rested  on  Lyra  he  moaned  and  let  his  head  sink 
on  his  breast.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  perhaps,  he  was 
conscious  of  all  she  was  to  him. 

"  My  poor  girl!"  he  murmured,  as  she  pressed  him  to  her 
in  an  agony  of  apprehension. 

"  What  is  it,  father?"  she  besought  him. 

"  My  poor  child!"  iie  moaned  again.  "  Lyra — "  but  Mr. 
Chandos' s  suave  voice  slipped  in: 

"  I  don't  think  you  should  excite  yourself  by  talking,  my 
dear  sir.  Keep  quite  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  we  will  help 
you  to  your  room." 

Mr.  Chester,  after  a  glance  round  the  parlor,  as  if  he  ex- 
pected to  still  see  the  odious  figure  of  his  creditor,  sunk  back. 

"  We  will  get  him  upstairs,  dear  Miss  Lyra,"  murmured 
Mr.  Chandos;  "and — then — I  don't  think  I  would  permit  him 
to  talk  at  all  to-night.  We  will  send  for  the  doctor — pray  do 
not  cry — "  There  were  no  tears  in  Lyra's  eyes,  her  grief  "and 
terror  being  beyond  tears.  "  I  can  not  be  too  thankful  that 
I  am  by  your  side  in  this  hour  of  trouble." 

Between  them — Mr.  Chandos  still  keeping  up  his  limp — 
they  got  the  stricken  old  man  to  his  room. 

"  I  will  send  Mary  to  you  the  moment  she  comes  in,"  mur- 
mured Mr.  Chandos,  "  and  Griffith  shall  go  for  the  doctor. 
And  be  sure  you  do  not  let  him  talk  and  excite  himself." 

This  spurious  sympathy  was  rewarded  by  a  look  of  grati- 
tude from  Lyra's  eyes,  and  feeling  quite  like  a  good  Samari- 
tan, he  went  down  to  the  parlor— without  the  limp — and  fish- 
ing out  the  newspaper  from  under  the  chair,  turned  to  the 
money  article. 

Running  down  the  stock  and  share  quotations,  he  came  to 
the  Bongalaboo  Tramway  Company.  Its  shares  had  gone  down 
to  zero;  and  Mr.  Chester  was  indeed  a  ruined  man. 

Mr.  Chandos  read  the  disastrous  information  with  a  com* 
placent  smile  of  profound  satisfaction,  then  carefully  tore  out 
the  portion  of  the  paper  which  contained  the  money  news,  and 
popped  it  in  the  fire. 


ONCE    IK    A    LIFE.  1U 

"  What  a  piece  of  luck!"  he  murmured,  his  pale  eyes  glist- 
ening, his  thin  lips  still  smiling.  "  Yes,  my  dear  Miss  Lyra,  I 
think  it  will  be  my  turn  to  laugh  presently." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

LTEA  sat  beside  her  father  all  that  night.  When  trouble 
comes  it  comes  in  battalions  and  not  in  single  spies,  and  this 
trouble  of  her  father's  sharp  and  sudden  illness,  following  so 
closely  on  the  discovery  of  her  love  and  loss  of  Dane,  confused 
and  bewildered  her. 

The  doctor  whom  Griffith  brought  from  Barnstaple  was  no 
better  and  no  worse  than  the  usual  run  of  medicos,  but  he 
was  an  honest  man  and  he  owned  himself  puzzled.  He 
couldn't  account  for  the  fainting  fit.  The  heart  was  weak,  he 
said — to  Mr.  Chandos — as  the  heart  of  a  man  who  pores  over 
books  and  takes  no  exercise  must  be;  but  he,  the  doctor,  was 
inclined  to  think  that  there  must  have  been  some  mental  dis- 
turbance. Did  he,  Mr.  Chandos,  know  of  any  matter  that 
might  be  troubling  the  sick  man? 

Mr.  Chandos  shook  his  head  and  looked  innocently  round 
the  parlor  in  which  he  and  the  doctor  were  talking. 

"  No,"  he  said;  "  I  should  say  there  was  nothing  whatever 
to  trouble  Mr.  Chester.  He  leads  a  remarkably  quiet  and  re- 
poseful life,  as  you  may  imagine,  and  appears  to  be  singularly 
happy  and  contented  in  the  society  of  his  daughter  and  his 
beloved  books.'5 

"  You  are  a  friend  of  the  family?"  asked  the  doctor  as  he 
pulled  on  his  driving-gloves. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Chandos,  blandly.  "  I  am  here  on  a  visit; 
have  been  detained  by. an  accident  to  my  foot;  and  of  course — 
of  course — I  shall  remain  while  I  can  be  of  any  service." 

"  Quite  right;  very  good  of  you,  my  dear  sir,"  said  the  sim- 
ple-minded doctor,  who  thought  Mr.  Chandos  a  very  nice  man 
indeed — a  very  kiad-hearted,  considerate  man,  in  fact.  ' '  You 
can  be  of  the  greatest  service.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  poor 
young  lady  upstairs  is  singularly  lonely  and  friendless.  Yes, 
stay  by  all  means." 

Lyra  held  her  father's  hand  all  night.  He  did  not  seem  to 
be  in  any  pain,  and  he  slept  at  intervals;  but  in  his  sleep  he 
moaned  as  if  something  was  troubling  him,  and  once  he 
breathed  her  name  pityingly,  lovingly. 

When  he  woke  in  the  early  morning  his  eyes  turned  to  her, 
he  sighed  deeply. 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

"  Lyra/*  he  murmured,  in  a  hollow  voice,  ' v  are  you  there? 
I — I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

"  No,  no,  dear/'  she  said,  laying  her  face  against  his; 
"  you  must  not  talk.  You  shall  tell  me  when  you  are  better, 
when  you  are  quite  well.  You  must  do  nothing  but  sleep  and 
rest  now;''  and  she  kissed  and  soothed  him. 

Mr.  Chester  was  a  weak  man  in  every  sense  of  the  word, 
and  grasped  at  the  chance  of  postponing  the  confession  of  his 
folly.  So  he  turned  away  from  her  with  a  stifled  groan  and 
closed  his  eyes. 

For  three  days  he  lay  thus,  and  Lyra  scarcely  left  the  bed- 
side. On  the  fourth  he  was  well  enough  to  leave  his  bed;  but 
it  was  a  feeble  and  broken  man,  the  shadow  of  even  his  former 
weak  and  feeble  self,  who  sat  beside  the  window  looking  over 
the  Taw,  his  head  sunk  on  his  breast,  his  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy, 
yet  with  an  expression  in  them  as  if  he  were  waiting  for  some 
great  sorrow. 

And  during  all  this  time  Mr.  Chandos  still  behaved  like  a 
ministering  angel.  He  lost  his  limp  and  went  to  Barnstaple 
for  jellies  and  other  delicacies,  sat  beside  the  old  man  and 
read  to  him,  and  in  every  way  played  the  parb  of  the  devoted 
and  self-sacrificing  friend.  Even  Griffith,  who  hovered  about 
the  place,  anxious  and  troubled,  and  sometimes  entered  the 
sick-room,  was  forced  to  admit,  with  a  grunt,  that  Mr.  Chan- 
dos was  behaving  very  well,  and  was  not  such  a  fool  as  he, 
Griffith,  thought  him. 

The  doctor  came  and  looked  at  the  old  man,  with  the 
queer,  inscrutable  expression  which  doctors  seem  to  acquire  as 
part  of  their  profession,  and  said:  yes,  he  was  getting  better; 
and  sent  him  tonics  and  spoke  hopefully  to  Lyra;  but  he  was 
grave  and  less  cheerful  with  Mr.  Chandos. 

"  He  is  very  weak,  Mr.  Barle,"  he  said.  "  Very.  I  can't 
help  thinking  that  there  is  something  on  his  mind.  He  seems 
to  be  always  brooding.  I  don't  like  to  ask  Miss  Chester — by 
the  way,  she  must  take  more  rest,  or  she  will  break  down.  She 
is  strong,  I  know,  but  this  perpetual  anxiety — " 

"  I  will  see  that  she  has  some  rest,"  said  Mr-  Chandos.  "  I 
know  that  she  is  doing  too  much,  but  I  will  put  a  stop  to  it. 
Mary  and  I  can  relieve  her.  Yes,  I  will  see  that  she  has  more 
rest."  And  Mr.  Chandos  spoke  with  such  sympathetic  con- 
sideration that  the  doctor  went  away,  confirmed  in  his  opinion 
that  Mr.  Geoffrey  Barle  was  a  nice,  unselfish  man  and  a  true 
friend. 

That  afternoon  Mr.  Chandos  whispered  softly  to  Lyra,  who 


IIT   A    LIFE,  113 

gat  beside  her  father,  holding  his  hand  and  looking  as  she  was 
looking,  over  the  Taw: 

"  Will  you  come  into  the  garden  for  a  little  while.  Miss 
Lyra?" 

Lyra  glanced  at  her  father. 

"  I  can  not  leave  him/'  she  said,  in  a  low  voice;  "  he 
misses  me  if  I  go  away  for  even  a  few  minutes." 

"  You  must  come,  please,"  he  said,  with  gentle  persuasion. 
"  I — there  is  something  I  want  to  say  to  you.  Mary  will  stay 
with  him." 

Lyra  got  up  reluctantly  and  went  down-stairs  and  into  the 
garden.  She  had  not  left  the  house  for  four  days,  and  the 
scent  of  the  roses  and  the  pinks  came  upon  her  with  a  peculiar 
sense  of  strangeness.  It  seemed  weeks,  months,  since  she  had 
stood  in  the  garden  with  Lord  Dane  by  her  side.  She  went  and 
sat  down  on  the  rustic  seat  behind  the  hedge,  and  as  she  looked 
round  with  sad,  dreamy  eyes,  the  morning  she  and  Dane  had 
sat  there  and  talked  together  came  back  to  her  as  vividly  as  if 
it  had  been  only  yesterday. 

Mr.  Chandos's  voice  woke  her  from  her  reverie  and  dispelled 
the  vision. 

"  You  are  making  yourself  ill,  dear  Miss  Lyra/'  he  said,  in 
his  soft  voice.  * '  That  will  not  do — indeed  it  will  not.  If  you 
were  to  break  down  I  do  not  know  what  we  should  all  do? 
You  must  take  more  rest — " 

Lyra  turned  her  sad  eyes  absently  upon  him. 

"  I  am  quite  well,"  she  said.  "  I  am  very  strong,  stronger 
than  you  think.  Do  you  think  my  father  is  getting  better?" 
she  asked,  with  tremulous  eagerness.  "  Please — please  tell 
me  the  truth." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  said — "  oh,  yes,  he  is  getting  better.  He 
is  very  ill,  as  a  man  must  be  who  suffered  such  a  shock  as  he 
suffered." 

"  Shock?"  said  Lyra,  starting  slightly,  her  eyes  fixed  anx- 
iously on  him.  "  What  shock?  Oh,  what  do  you  mean,  Mr. 
Barle?" 

Mr.  Chandos  looked  aside,  as  if  he  had  been  guilty  of  a  slip 
of  the  tongue. 

"  I — er — tut,  tut!— I  did  not  mean — "    He  faltered 

Lyra  put  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  You  did  not  mean  to  say  what?  You  know  something 
about  my  father's  .illness.  You  are  trying  to  keep  something 
from  me.  Oh,  do  not,  do  not!  Tell  me,  please!  Are  you 
afraid  I  can  not  bear  it?  You  need  not  be.  I  can  bear  any- 
thing—but this  uncertainty — suspense." 


114  OKCE    IN    A.    LIFE. 

Mr.  Chandos,  with  still  averted  eyes,  let  his  hand  fall  on  her 
hand  upon  his  arm,  and  pressed  it  soothingly,  encouragingly. 

"  I  ought  to  have  been  more  careful,"  he  murmured.  "  I 
have  tried — indeed,  I  have  tried — to  conceal  it  from  you^  to 
keep  you  in  ignorance." 

"What  is  it  you  have  tried  to  keep  from  me?"  said  Lyra, 
looking  earnestly  into  his  averted  face.  "  Why  should  you 
keep  me  in  ignorance?  I  am  his  daughter,  and — and  I  am 
not  a  child.  What  is  it?" 

"  One  always  desires  to  keep  trouble — the  shadow  of  trouble 
— from  falling  on  those  one  lov — likes,"  murmured  the  sym- 
pathetic Chandos. 

Lyra's  hand  dropped,  but'  her  eyes  still  scanned  his  face. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  keep  anything  from  me,"  she  said, 
with  sad  dignity.  "  If  you  know  the  cause  of  my  father's 
illness — if  you  know  of  anything  that  is  troubling  him,  you 
should  tell  me.  Tell  me  at  once,  please." 

"  I — I  only  heard  it  by  accident,"  murmured  Mr.  Chandos; 
humbly;  "  and  if  I  have  kept  it  from  you  it  was  from  a  desire 
to  shield  you." 

"  There  is  something  that  troubles  him!"  murmured  Lyra, 
more  to  herself  than  him.  "  Tell  me,  please,  Mr.  Barle!  I 
will,  I  must  know!  Has  anything  happened — is  any  one 
dead?" 

"  No,  no,"  he  said.  "  It  is  a  money  trouble,  dear  Miss 
Lyra." 

"  A  money  trouble,"  she  echoed,  looking  at  him  with  a 
confused,  bewildered  expression  in  her  lovely  face. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh,  "  a  serious  trouble;  but  don't 
be  alarmed,  I — " 

"  Tell  me,  tell  me!"  she  cried,  tremulously. 

Mr.  Chandos  shook  his  head  sympathetically. 

"  Your  father  is  in  want  of  a  large  sum  of  money,  dear 
Miss  Lyra.  A  creditor — a  hard-hearted  creditor — is  pressing 
him  for  a  large  sum — five  hundred  pounds — which  it  appears 
your  father  borrowed  some  years  ago  and  seems  to  have  almost 
forgotten." 

"  Well,"  said  Lyra,  "  can  he  not  pay  it?  If  he  borrowed  it 
he  can  pay  it. "  And  there  was  a  touch  of  pride  in  her  voice. 

Mr.  Chandos  shook  his  head. 

"  Alas!  I  fear  not;  indeed,  I  am  sure  he  can  not,  and  it  IB 
this  that  is  crushing  him  and  keeping  him  ill." 

"  My  father  " — her  voice  broke — "  my  father  can  not  pat 
hia  debts?" 

Kr.  Chandos  shook  his  head  and  sighed. 


(WCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

"  I  fear  not.     Do  not  blame  him,  dear  Miss  Lyra — " 

"  Blame  him!"    The  idea  was  a  sacrilege. 

"  But  of  course  you  will  not.  He  has  heen  unfortunate; 
we  are  all  of  us  unfortunate  in  money  matters  at  times.  His 
investments  have  gone  wrong — they  will — they  do  sometimes, 
just  when  it  is  most  inconvenient.  But  you  understand  now 
what  it  is  that  is  troubling  him.  It  is  a  terrible  prospect  foi 
a  man  of  his  age." 

"  Terrible  prospect?"  she  echoed,  gazing  at  him,  her  hands 
tightly  clasped. 

"  Yes,"  he  murmured.  "To  have  one's  house  sold  over 
one's  head,  to  be  turned  adrift  into  the  world — an  old  and 
feeble  man — ' 

Lyra  rose  with  a  cry,  a  low,  but  terrible  cry,  her  hands 
stretched  out  before  her,  then  sunk  into  the  seat  again. 

Mr.  Chandos  watched  her. 

"My  dear,  dear  Miss  Lyra!"  he  murmured,  with  deepest 
sympathy.  "  Don't  take  it  to  heart  so  much!  Pray,  pray  be 
calm!  It  is  true  it  is  terrible,  dreadful  to  contemplate;  an 
old  man  in  his  state  of  health  without  home  or  money  or 
friends.  But,  I  forget;  you  may  have  friends  who  will  help 
you?" 

"Friends?"  her  voice  sounded  hollow  and  despairing. 
"  No.  I  know  of  none.  Oh!  my  poor  father!"  and  she  hid 
her  face  in  her  hands,  but  only  for  a  moment. 

"  No?"  murmured  Mr.  Chandos.  "  Are  you  sure?  Dear,, 
dear!  this  is  very,  dreadfully,  sad.  It  wrings  my  heart.  Oh,.- 
something  must  be  done,  Miss  Lyra." 

She  scarcely  heard  him  and  did  not  respond. 

He  drew  a  little  nearer  and  touched  her  arm  with  the  tip  of.  _jr 
his  fingers.  ** 

"  Miss  Lyra,  will  you  let  me  help  you?" 

"You?"  £ 

She  turned  her  wild,  sorrow-laden  eyes  upon  him. 

"  Yes,  I.  It  is  true  I  can  scarcely  dare  to  call  myself  "by- 
such  a  sacred  name  as  '  friend/  though — ah!  if  you  could  only 
see  my  heart " — he  paused  dramatically  and  Md  his  hand  over 
the  spot  where  that  troublesome  organ  is  generally  placed — 
"  if  you  could  see  my  heart,  you  would  know  how  truly,  how 
sympathetically  it  throbs  for  you.  I  would  lay  down  my  life 
for  you;  I  would  go  to  the  stake  to  save  you  from  an  hour's, 
a  moment's  unhappiness.  Lyra,  you  must  know — you  can 
not  be  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  I — I  love  you."  Lyra  still 
gazed  before  her  with  wild,  sorrow-laden  eyes.  He  drew  a 
Little  closer  to  her.  "  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart  and  soul. 


lltf  OKCE    IS    A    LIFE. 

You  are  my  goddess — my  queen — my  chief  rose  in  a  garden  o| 
roses!"  A  glimmer  of  the  meaning  of  his  words  began  to 
dawn  upon  her.  She  shrunk  from  him  slightly,  "  I  love 
you!"  he  went  on,  sidling  up  to  her,  his  pale-blue  eyes  glow- 
ing, his  lips  working,  in  his  earnestness;  for  at  that  moment 
Mr.  Chandos  was  as  earnest  in  the  pursuit  of  his  prey  as  Dane 
would  have  been  in  the  Rockies  after  deer  or  bears. 

"You— love  me?" 

The  words  fell  from  her  lips  mechanically,  and  she  looked 
at  him  with  wild  amazement. 

"  Yes— yes,  a  hundred  times!  Don't  speak!  Listen  to  me 
— wait  till  I  have  told  you  all.  Lyra,  I  can  help  you,  I  can 
help  your  father,  if — if  you  will  give  me  the  right  to  do  so." 

"  The  right?" 

She  echoed  the  words,  her  hand  to  her  forehead. 

"  Yes,"  he  murmured,  almost  hoarsely,  for  Mr.  Chandos  was 
terribly  in  earnest.  Her  beauty  sent  the  blood  coursing 
through  his  veins;  the  hope,  the  chance  of  winning  her — of  get- 
ting her  in  his  power,  of  seeing  her  soon  at  his  feet — made  his 
brain  burn.  "  Yes,  the  sweetest,  the  divinest  right.  Lyra, 
I  am  a  poor  man,  but  I  can  help  your  father — you — out  of 
this  strait.  If  matters  are  allowed  to  take  their  course,  he 
will  be  turned  out  of  house  and  home.  It  will — alas!  I  fear 
it  will  kill  him. ' '  She  leaned  back  panting,  her  face  deathly 
white.  "  You  know  how  weak,  how  ill  he  is;  and  this  man, 
his  creditor,  is  inexorable;  he  will  have  no  pity.  You,  who  do 
not  know  anything  of  the  world,  can  not  imagine  how  heartless 
and  pitiless  men  can  be  where  money  is  concerned.  Yes,  I 
fear  it  will  kill  him.  But  I  can  save  him.  I  am  a  poor  man, 
but  I  can  raise  this  money — sufficient  to  ward  off  this  danger 
— I  can  save  your  father,  Lyra.  Only  give  me  the  right. 
Lyra  " — he  took  her  hand,  cold  as  ice,  in  his  hot  one — "  Lyra, 
say  that  you  will  be  my  wife,  and  I  will  save  your  father." 
|  A  shudder  ran  through  her.  She  drew  her  hand  from  his, 
and  drew  her  head,  herself  away,  as  she  would  have  shrunk 
from  some  loathsome  reptile. 

"  Your— wife!"  fell  from  her  white  lips;  and  as  she  uttered 
the  words  there  rose  the  vision  of  Dane,  the  man  who  had 
stolen  the  heart  from  her  bosom.  "  Your  wife!" 

At  the  expression  of  her  face,  the  tone  of  her  voice,  Mr. 
Chandos's  own  expression  grew  anxious;  but  he  controlled  it. 

'*  Yes,  dearest,  dearest  Lyra.  You  can  not  hesitate.  You 
—you  do  not  hate  me?" 

Lyra  could  not  force  a  "  No  "  to  her  lips. 

"  You  will  not  refuse  my  aid?"  he  went  on,  in  a  low,  per 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  117 

suasive  voice.  "  You,  who  love  your  father,  will  not  stand  bj 
and  see  him  cast  out  into  the  streets,  when  one  word,  a  sim- 
ple *  Yes,'  will  save  him?  Think;  I  will  pay  this  money,  I 
will  take  this  awful  burden  off  his  shoulders,  I  will  be  his 
friend  for  life,  if  you  will  only  promise  to  be  my  wife.  See, 
Lyra,  it  rests  with  you.  Your  father's  fate  is  in  your  hands." 

She  bent  forward,  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap,  her  lovely 
eyes  fixed  in  a  wild,  distraught  gaze.  Her  father  and — yet, 
Dane — rose  before  her  like  specters.  To  be  this  man's  wife! 
The  horror  of  the  idea  benumbed  her.  This  man's  wife!  To 
be  his  entirely,  wholly!  To  be  linked  with  him  until  she  or 
he  died!  She  shook  and  quivered  with  repugnance. 

"  What  is  your  answer,  Lyra  dearest?"  he  murmured. 
"  Do  you  refuse  to  save  your  father?" 

He  was  wise  to  harp  upon  that,  the  principal  string.  It 
was  irresistible. 

She  turned  to  him  slowly,  like  a  statue  of  stone  imbued  with 
the  power  of  movement  only. 

"  I — I  will  do  what  you  wish,"  she  panted  almost  inartic- 
ulately. "  You — you  will  give  my  father  this  money — you 
will  save  him?" 

"  Yes,  yes!"  he  cried,  unwisely  putting  his  arm  round  her; 
for  at  his  touch  she  shrunk  away  from  him,  and  scarcely  re- 
frained from  thrusting  him  from  her.  "  Yes,  Lyra,  dearest, 
my  own,  my  very  own,  I  will  get  the  money;  the  debt  shall 
be  paid ;  your  father  shall  be  spared  any  further  anxiety;  and 
you — ah,  Lyra!  dear,  dear  Lyra!  I  will  try  to  make  you 
happy.  We  will  lead  the  sweetest,  the  gayest  of  lives.  We 
will  go  to  Paris." 

She  rose,  clutching  the  arm  of  the  seat,  as  if  to  fly  from  his 
touch. 

*  Tell— tell— my  father,"  she  panted. 

Mr.  Chandos  bit  his  lip. 

"  A  moment,  dearest,"  he  said.  "  I— I  think  it  would  be 
as  well  if  we  kept  the  fact  of  our  engagement  a  secret  even 
from  him." 

"  A  secret?"  she  said,  in  a  lifeless  way. 

"  Yes,"  he  murmured,  suavely.  "  Sit  down,  dear  one,  and 
listen  to  me." 

She  did  not  sit  down,  but  stood  grasping  the  seat,  her  face 
turned  from  him. 

"  I— er— "  Mr.  Chandos  cleared  his  throat.  '  There  are 
reasons  why  our  engagement,  marriage,  should  be  kept  se- 
cret," he  said,  rather  huskily,  his  pale-blue  eyes  watching  her 
intently,  "  I  am  dependent  upon  a  relative — an  uncle — whc 


118  ONCE    IK    A. 

—who  might,  probably  would,  refuse  his  consent,  to  what  he 

he  would  consider  an  imprudent  marriage.  We — we  shall 

have  to  be  married  quite  quietly — er — in  fact,  I  may  say  se- 
cretly. Even  your  father  must  not — er — know  of  it.  Do  you 
rnind,  dearest?  It  is  for  your  sake  as  well  as  my  own  that  I 
say  this/' 

Lyra  shook  her  head  hi  a  dull,  apathetic  way. 

Mr.  Chandos  moistened  his  lips. 

"  My  dear  Lyra,  how  sensible,  how  sweetly  sensible  you  are. 
Yes,  our  marriage  must  be  kept  a  close  secret.  I  must  think 
•of  a  plan  " — he  knit  his  brows  and  looked  thoughtful,  as  if  his 
plan,  his  vile  plan,  were  not  already  cut  and  dried — "  by  which 
we  can  keep  the  whole  affair  to  ourselves.  But  leave  that  to 
jne,  dearest  Lyra." 

She  let  her  eyes  fall  on  him.  His  face  was  flushed,  his  lips 
•quivering. 

"  Won't  you — won't  you  let  me  give  you  one  kiss,  our  be- 
trothal kiss?" 

She  stood  like  a  figure  of  stone,  her  beautiful  face  white  as 
marble  itself,  then  she  moved,  statue-like,  toward  him;  but  as 
he  rose  and  approached  her  she  drew  back. 

"Not — not  yet.  Give — give  me  tune!"  broke  from  her 
white  lips;  and  staggering  like  a  person  recovering  from  a 
swoon,  she  went  into  the  house. 

Mr.  Chandos  sunk  back  into  the  seat,  biting  his  lips. 

"  Oh,  very  well,  very  well,  my  dear,"  he  muttered,  with  a 
sinister  smile  of  disappointment.  "  I  can  wait  a  little  longer, 
a  little  longer." 

He  remained  hi  the  arbor  for  some  minutes,  smiling  at 
times,  at  others  gnawing  at  his  lips,  for  Mr.  Chandos  was  en- 
gaged in  rather  a  dangerous  game;  then  he  went  into  the 
house  and  up  to  Mr.  Chester's  room. 

The  old  man  was  lying  back  in  his  arm-chair,  his  eyes  fixed 
1  on  the  window;  Lyra  was  sitting  at  his  feet,  her  head  resting 
on  his  knee.  She  did  not  move  as  Mr.  Chandos  entered  and 
came  up  to  the  chair. 

"  Mr.  Chester,"  he  said,  hi  his  soft,  suave  voice — "  Mr. 
Chester." 

Mr.  Chester  turned  his  wasted  face  and  faded,  care-worn 
eyes  on  him. 

"  You  will  be  glad  to  hear,"  said  Mr.  Chandos,  in  a  voice  of 
tender  benevolence,  "that  the  little  matter  that  has  been 
troubling  you  has  been  arranged." 

Mr.  Chester  knit  his  brow  ^ith  an  expression  of  mental 
confusion. 


ONCE    IK    A    LIFE.  119 

"  The  matter — "  he  faltered,  in  &  thin,  husky  voice, 

"  The  matter  of  the  five  hundred  pounds — the  bill,"  said 
Mr.  Chandos,  with  a  glance  at  Lyra's  downcast  face. 

"  The  bill?"  repeated  Mr.  Chester,  dully,  vacantly. 

"  Yes.  It  will  be  settled — ahem! — at  least,  I  have  every 
reason  to  think  it  will  be;  will  it  not,  Lyra?" 

She  raised  her  head  slowly  and  looked  up  at  her  father,  her 
eyes  full  of  loving  tenderness  and  self-sacrifice. 

"  Yes,  father — yes/'  she  breathed;  then  her  head  sunk 
upon  his  knee  again. 

That  same  evening  Mr.  Chandos  walked  over  to  Barnstaple. 
It  was  by  no  means  a  chilly  evening,  but  for  reasons  best 
known  to  himself  he  wore  the  collar  of  his  coat  turned  up, 
and  his  romantic,  poetic  wide-awake  tilted  well  over  his  fore- 
head; and  when,  after  several  inquiries,  he  found  No.  28 
Clongate  Street,  and  the  door  was  opened  to  him,  it  was  with 
quite  a  different  voice  to  his  ordinary  one — a  voice  that  one 
would  almost  have  imagined  was  carefully  disguised — that  he 
asked  for  Mr.  Robert  Rawdon. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

AN  untidy,  smutty- visaged  "  slavey  "  opened  the  door — a  few 
inches  only — of  28  Clongate  Street,  and  stared  at  Mr.  Chan- 
dos's  muffled  face. 

"  Is  Mr.  Robert  Rawdon  at  home?"  he  asked,  in  a  carefully 
disguised  voice. 

The  girl  peered  at  him  suspiciously. 

"  I  dunno/'  she  said,  evasively.  "  What  do  V'  want  with 
him?"  and  she  pushed  the  door  closer  with  her  foot. 

Mr.  Chandos  stuck  a  shilling  in  between  her  grimy  fingers. 

"  Perhaps  you'll  go  and  see,"  he  said,  blandly. 

The  girl  put  the  shilling  in  her  mouth  and  shut  the  door; 
but  after  a  moment  or  two  it  was  opened,  as  cautiously  as  be- 
fore, and  Rawdon  peered  round. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Rawdon?"  said  Mr.  Chandos. 

Rawdon  started,  but  looked  relieved. 

"  Oh,  it's  only  you,  is  it?"  he  said.  "  Come  in.  Be  quick, 
please." 

Mr.  Chandos  slipped  in  through  the  narrow  opening,  and 
Rawdon  closed  the  door  and  locked  it. 

"  Hold  on  a  minute/'  be  said.  "  I'll  get  a  light."  He  dis- 
appeared, leaving  Mr  Chandos  in  the  dark  and  not  particu- 
larly pleasant-smelling  passage,  and  reappeared  with  a  candle 
stuck  in  an  empty  gin  bottle,  "  Come  upstairs,"  he  said. 


120  ONCE    IIT   A    LIFE. 

Mr.  Chandos  followed  him  up  a  rickety  staircase,  very 
nearly  treading  on  a  remarkably  dirty  infant  who  was  engaged 
in  sucking  the  balusters,  and  entered  a  dingy  room  which 
smelled  of  herrings,  beer,  and  stale  tobacco. 

It  was  the  shabbiest  and  most  unsavory  apartment  the  ele- 
gant Mr.  Chandos  had  ever  seen,  and  be  held  his  breath  and 
looked  round  appalled. 

Eawdon  drew  a  chair  forward,  one  of  those  ingenious  contri- 
vances which  provide  a  chair  by  day  and  a  bed  by  night. 

"  Take  a  seat,"  he  said.  "  Don't  sit  down  too — too  hard 
or  suddenly." 

Mr.  Chandos  arrested  himself  half-way  and  looked  round 
nervously. 

"  Oh,  it's  all  right  if  you're  tolerably  careful,"  said  Eawdon, 
reassuringly. 

Mr.  Chandos  sat  down  gingerly  and  clutched  the  arms  of  the 
chair. 

"  It's  very  good  of  you  to  look  me  up,"  said  Kawdon. 
"  I'm  sorry  I  haven't  a  better  place  to  receive  you  in." 

He  looked  round  the  room  with  a  weary  kind  of  disgust. 

"  Not  at  all,"  murmured  Mr.  Chandos,  pleasantly.  "  Hon- 
est poverty  is  always  respectable,  my  dear  Eawdon." 

Is  it?"  said  Eawdon,  sardonically.  "  That's  rot.  Pov- 
erty, whether  honest  or  the  other  thing,  never  is  respectable. 
You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do." 

He  reached  for  a  pipe  as  he  spoke,  a  black,  grimy  brier,  and 
got  out  a  pouch  from  his  frayed  pocket,  but  the  pouch  was 
empty  and  he  tossed  it  and  the  pipe  on  the  mantel-shelf. 

Mr.  Chandos  watched  his  friend  and  former  college  chum 
with  covert  scrutiny.  Mr.  Eawdon  looked  even  more  dissi- 
pated and  raffish  than  he  had  looked  on  the  night  Mr.  Chandos 
had  met  him  on  the  street.  His  face  was  pale  and  haggard, 
with  dark  hollows  under  the  eyes,  and  a  crop  of  blue  bristles 
round  his  chin,  and  his  lips  twitched  nervously. 

"  I  can't  offer  you  any  refreshment,  Chandos,"  he  said, 
sticking  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  leaning  moodily  against 
the  grimy  mantel-piece.  "  There  isn't  a  thing  to  eat  or  drink 
in  the  house — or  the  room,  for  I've  only  got  this  room.  You 
must  take  the  will  for  the  deed." 

"  Certainly,  certa^i/y, ''  said  Mr.  Chandos,  amiably.  "  Per- 
haps— er — perhaps  you  would  allow  me  to — to — "  he  drew 
eonie  silver  from  his  pocket  as  he  spoke  in  a  tentative  way; 
Out  he  need  not  have  been  so  modest  and  hesitating. 

"  Allow  you  to  stand  treat?"  said  Eawdon,  with  a  sort  of 
6itter  promptness.  "  Of  course  I  will." 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  181 

Mr.  Chandos  laid  half  a  crown  on  the  table  cov&red  with  a 
sticky  cloth,  and  Rawdon  took  up  the  coin  with  an  affected 
indifference. 

"  What  shall  it  be?"  he  said,  his  eyes  beginning  to  glitter 
with  a  thirsty,  eager  look.  "  I  suppose  you'd  like  whisky,  or 
brandy?  They  sell  very  good  gin  at  the  pub.  round  the  cor- 
ner/' he  added,  suggestively. 

"  Whichever  you  please;  let  it  begin,  as  you  recommend  it. 
my  dear  Rawdon,"  said  Mr.  Chandos,  blandly. 

Rawdon  went  to  the  door  and  called  "  Polly!"  but  in  a 
rather  subdued  voice. 

The  slipshod  girl  could  be  heard  struggling  up  the  stairs, 
and  a  whispered  colloquy  ensued  between  her  and  Rawdon. 
"  Mind,  best  Ply  mouth  unsweetened!  There,  I'll  let  you  out," 
Mr.  Chandos  heard  him  say,  and  he  also  heard  the  key  turned 
in  the  street  door. 

Rawdon  waited  in  the  passage  for  the  girl's  return,  and  Mr. 
Chandos  passed  the  time  in  an  examination  of  the  room.  Its 
dirt  and  squalor  made  him  shudder;  "  and  there  won't  be  a 
glass  fit  to  drink  out  of!"  he  murmured  to  himself,  plaint- 
ively; but  he  sunk  back — carefully — and  smiled  pleasantly  as 
Rawdon  entered,  lovingly  nursing  a  gin  bottle  under  his  arm 
and  carrying  a  jug  of  hot  water. 

"If s "best  hot,"  he  said;  "but  you  can  have  some  cold 
water  if  you  like." 

"  I  prefer  it  as  you  do,"  said  Mr.  Chandos.  "  Your  house 
seems  indeed  to  be  a  castle,  my  dear  Rawdon,"  he  remarked, 
sipping  the  steaming  grog.  "  You  take  as  many  precautions 
with  the  front  door  as  if  it  were  the  gate  of  a  besieged  for- 
tress." 

"So  it  is,"  said  Rawdon,  taking  a  great  draught  of  the 

grog,  and  filling  up  his  glass  with  neat  gin.     "  So  it  is,"  and 

he  laughed  a  short,  defiant  laugh.     "  It  is  besieged  by  duns. 

I'm  stone  broke,  and  that's  a  fact,  Chandos;    clean  stone 

i  broke.     I  owe  money  everywhere,  though  how  the  devil  I've 

»  managed  it  I  can't  think,  seeing  that  I  never  seem  to  have 

half  enough  to  eat,  and  not  a  quarter  enough  to  drink,  and  no 

new  clothes.     Poverty  respectable !"  and  he  refilled  his  glass 

and  laughed  bitterly. 

"  I'm  extremely  sorry  to  see  you  in  this  plight,  especially  as 
it  is  undeserved,  as  I  am  sure  it  is." 

Rawdon  glanced  at  him,  suspecting  sarcasm,  but  Mr.  Chan- 
dos's  expression  was  blandly  sympathetic  as  he  sipped  his  gin 
and  water. 

"  Thanks/'  said  Rawdon,  bluntly.      "  Very  kind  of 


ONCE  rsr  A  LIFE. 

but  soft  words  butter  no  parsnips — not  that  I've  any  to  butter, 
by  the  way.  And  so  you've  come  to  look  me  up,  have  you, 
just  for  old  friendship's  sake?  Ton  my  soul,  I  didn't  expect 
it  of  you." 

Mr.  Chandos's  ey«s  fell. 

"  Did  you  not?  You  do  me  an  injustice,  my  dear  Rawdon. 
I  never  " — he  leaned  forward,  but  hastily  sat  back  as  the  chair 
creaked  threateningly — "  I  never  forget  an  old  friend." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Rawdon  again,  and  more  genially;  hot  gin 
and  water  has  a  mellowing  influence,  it  is  said. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  generous-hearted  Mr.  Chandos,  "  I  am  as 
pleased  to  visit  you  in  this — er — not  too  luxurious  apartment, 
my  dear  Rawdon,  as  if  you  were  snugly  housed  in  some  cozy 
country  vicarage,  as  you  ought  to  be." 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  harp  on  that  string,  and  call  up 
past  hopes  and  visions,"  said  Rawdon,  huskily.  "  Have  a 
pipe.  I  told  the  <rirl  to  spend  the  change  in  '  bacca. '  ' 

Mr.  Chandos  declined,  and  tried  not  to  cough,  as  Rawdon  at 
once  proceeded  to  fill  the  room  with  the  fnmes  of  a  most  po- 
tent shag. 

"  I  thought  you  had  left  the  neighborhood,"  said  Rawdon, 
sinking  into  a  chair,  and  leaning  back  with  his  hand  caress- 
ing the  tumbler. 

Oh,  no!"  said  Mr.  Chandos.  "It  is  so  beautiful,  so  pict- 
uresque, that  I  have  been  tempted  to  stay  on  and — er — study 
it.  Besides,  I  should  not  have  thought  of  leaving  it  without 
coming  to  see  you,  and — er — pray,  forgive  me,  Rawdon — vent- 
uring to  offer  you  some  light — ahem! — pecuniary  assistance." 

Rawdon  stared  at  him  and  flushed. 

'You  mean  it?"  he  said,  with  some,  not  very  flattering, 
astonishment.  "  I  thought  you  were  going  to  say  '  offer  you 
some  advice. '  And  upon  my  word,  if  you  had,  I  should  have 
felt  inclined  to  chuck  this  glass  at  you — it's  empty.  You 
really  mean  to  give  me  a  hand?  Excuse  my  incredulity,  but 
you  refused  to  loan  me  a  simple  fiver  the  other  night,  you 
know. " 

"  I  had  not  my  purse  with  me,"  said  Chandos. 

"  Left  it  on  the  piano  at  the  hotel;  I  see,"  said  Rawdon. 
"  WeM>  Better  lftte  than  never;  and,  by  George!  no  poor 
devil  ever  wanted  a  friend  more  than  I  do,  Chandos." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  is  true,"  said  Mr.  Chandos.  "  Dear  me, 
it  seems  as  if  it  must  be  some  other  person  than  yourself  sit- 
ting there  in  this — er — rather  gloomy-looking  room.  When  I 
look  back  to  the  old  college  times — the  nice  parties,  the  pri« 
Vftte  theatricals — " 


ONCE    DSP   A    LIFE.  1231, 

"  Don't  look  hack  if  it  hurts  you,"  broke  in  Rawdon; 
"  though  it  can't  hurt  you  more  than  it  hurts  me.  How 
much  are  you  going  to  lend  aie,  Chandos?  Make  it  as  nmchi 
as  you  can/' 

Chandos  looked  down  pensively  and  sighed. 

"  I  want  to  be  of  some  real,  some  lasting  service  to  you,  my  ' 
dear  Rawdon,"  he  said.     "  I  feel  that  a  paltry  five-pound 
note,  such  as  you  asked  me  for  the  other  night,  can  not  be  of 
much  use  to  you;  it  can  only  relieve  your — er — poverty  in  the 
most  temporary  way." 

"  It  will  give  me  something  to  eat,  drink,  and  smoke  for  a 
fortnight  or  more/'  remarked  Rawdon,  laconically. 

"Just  so;  and  after?"  murmured  Mr.  Chandos. 

"  After  that  the  deluge!"  exclaimed  Rawdon,  with  a  laugh. 
"  *  Sufficient  for  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof.'  ' 

Mr.  Chandos  shook  his  head  with  gentle  rebuke. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  friend,  if  you  could  only  learn  to  think  more 
of  the  future!" 

Rawdon  laughed  sardonically. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  try  to  preacn,  Chandos!"  he 
said.  "  You  look  too  killingly  funny.  What  is  it  you  mean? 
What  is  it  you're  aiming  at?" 

Mr.  Chandos  seemed  to  ponder. 

"  Well,  my  dear  Rawdon,"  he  said,  "  I  have  been  thinking; 
over  your  sad  fate,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  with  your  brilliant 
attainments,  with  your  ripe  scholarship  and — er — " 

"Gift  of  the  gab!" 

"Great  oratorical  powers,"  continued  Mr.  Chandos,  "you 
ought  to  be  able  to  carve  out  for  yourself  a  new,  perhaps  a 
great  career  in  another  sphere." 

"  Do  you  mean  heaven,  or  the  other  place?"  asked  Raw- 
don, bluntly. 

"  I  mean  in  one  of  our  colonies,  my  dear  Rawdon,"  said 
Mr.  Chandos. 

Rawdon  laughed  grimly.  i 

"  Thanks.     I  know;   steerage  passage  paid  to  Australia,  : 
New  Zealand,  anywhere;   land  with  two  pounds  ten  in  your 
pocket,  and   when    that's  spent,   take    to    breaking    stone. 
Thanks.     I  can  break  stones  here  in  England,  when  1  happen 
to  take  a  fancy  to  that  artistic  industry." 

"  No,  no,  my  dear  Rawdon,  you  misunderstand  me,"  said 
Mr.  Chandos.  "  I  meant  nothing  so — er — absurd.  What  I 
proposed  to  myself  to  offer  you  was  a  passage  paid  to  one  of 
our  most  nourishing  colonies,  and — er — sufficient  capital  to 
enable  you  to  look  round  and  find  congenial  employment.." 


124  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

Kawdon  almost  let  the  pipe  drop  out  of  his  mouth,  and 
stared  at  the  benevolently  smiling  Mr.  Chandos  as  if  he  could 
not  believe  his  senses. 

"You — you  mean  to  do  that  for  me?"  he  said,  huskily. 

You — Chandos  Armitage — I  beg  your  pardon;   but — well, 


"  I  am  quite  sure  you  will,  my  dear  Kawdon,"  said  Mr. 
Chandos,  sweetly.  "  I  know  your  upright,  honorable  nature 
so  well.  How  much?  Well,  do  you  think  fifty  pounds  would 
be  sufficient?" 

Eawdon  rose  from  his  chair  and  then  sunk  down  again.  His 
face  flushed,  then  turned  pale,  and  there  were  tears  in  his 
bleared  eyes;  tears  which  owed  their  existence  to  the  emotion 
of  gratitude  as  well  as  hot  gin  and  water. 

"  Fifty  pounds!"  he  said,  huskily.  "  My  dear  Chandos — 
But  " — his  voice  broke  and  he  started  up  again — "  but  this 
isn't  a  joke,  a  jest,  on  your  part,  is  it?  You  are  not  playing 
it  down  on  me?"  a  savage  light  gleamed  in  his  eyes  through 
the  tears. 

"  No,  no.  Sit  down,  I  beg,"  said  Chandos.  "  Er — er — 
will  you  give  me  a  little  more  of  the — er — gin?  It  is  excel- 
lent, excellent.  And  do  look  after  yourself,  my  dear  Eaw- 
don." 

Eawdon,  with  an  unsteady  hand,  replenished  the  glasses, 
nearly  filling  his  own,  as  Mr.  Chandos  noticed,  with  neat  gin. 

"  As  an  earnest  of  my  desire  to  help  you,  let  me  offer  you  a 
small  loan  to  commence  with." 

He  fumbled  in  his  pocket. 

"  Tut,  tut!  I  have  left  my  purse  at  home — I  had  a  five- 
pound  note  in  it" — Eawdon  began  to  laugh  suspiciously,  iron- 
ically— "  but  I  have  some  loose  change*"  He  laid  a  couple 
of  sovereigns  on  the  table  and  some  silver.  "  That  will  keep 
you  afloat  until  I  can  give  you  the  remainder.  You  will  not 
mind  waiting  a  few  days,  my  dear  Eawdon?" 

Eawdon  picked  up  the  money  and  turned  it  over  as  if  he  ex- 
pected it  to  transform  itself  into  dead  leaves,  like  the  money  in 
the  "  Arabian  Nights'  "  story;  then,  when  he  had  quite  assured 
himself  that  it  was  genuine  coin  of  the  realm,  he  dropped  it 
into  his  pocket  and  sunk  into  the  chair  with  a  sigh  of  amaze- 
ment and  gratitude  combined. 

"  Mind  waiting?"  he  said.  "  Of  course  not!  That  is,  if  it 
isb  t  too  long.  I  could  hold  out  here  for  a  few  days — a  week. 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  125 

You  don't  expect  me  to  pay  my  debts  before  I  start,  eh?5    and 
he  grinned. 

Mr.  Chandos  looked  down. 

"  I  leave  that  to  you,  my  dear  Rawdon,"  he  said,  gravely. 
"  I  am  afraid  that  if  you  did — er — that  you  would  not  have 
much  left.  I  leave  that  to  you. " 

Rawdon  nodded  and  laughed. 

"  Not  such  a  fool!"  he  said.  "  It  would  be  a  waste  of  good 
money;  for  once  out  of  this  cursed  country,  you  won't  see  me 
back;  no,  not  if  I  have  to  take  to  stone-breaking.  And  you 
will  do  this  for  me — lend  me  this  money  without  security? 
Look  here,  Chandos,  I've  done  you  an  injustice;  I've  thought 
badly  of  you  since  the  other  night.  I  beg  your  pardon. 
You're  a  good  fellow,  a  true  friend,  and — and — God  bless  you !" 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  Chandos  took  it.  Perhaps  some- 
thing in  Mr.  Chandos' s  cold  paw,  perhaps  something  in  his 
sleek  face,  or  pale-blue  eyes,  again  roused  Rawdon's  suspicions, 
for  he  dropped  the  hand  suddenly  and  scanned  his  friend's 
countenance. 

"  Chandos,  you  are  going  to  do  all  this  for  nothing — for  the 
sake  of  old  friendship?  Isn't  there  something  you  want  for 
it,  something  you  want  me  to  do?" 

Mr.  Chandos  smiled  sweetly. 

"  No,  no,  my  dear  Rawdon,"  he  said.  "  There  is  nothing. 
Nothing — I  think."  He  seemed  to  ponder.  "If  you  really 
think  you  would  like  to  make  me  some  return,  I  wish  there 
was  something.  Let  me  think.  Ah,  yes!  my  dear  Rawdon, 
there  is  a  slight  service  you  could  render  me — " 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  Rawdon,  with  an  indrawing  of  his 
lips.  "What  is  it?" 

Mr.  Chandos,  still  smiling  sweetly,  motioned  his  friend  to 
his  chair,  and,  as  he  did  so,  replenished  Rawdon's  glass. 
'   "  It  is  a  small,  a  very  small  matter.     Scarcely  worth  your 
notice,  my  dear  Rawdon,  and  I  shall  not  be  at  all  surprised  or 
offended  if  you  decline." 

Rawdon  took  a  drink  and  watched  his  benefactor  silently. 

"  You  remember  the  theatricals  we  used  to  have?"  said  Mr. 
Chandos,  "  and  how  splendidly  you  used  to  play?  Well,  I 
want  you  to  take  part  in  some — er — theatricals  for  me." 

"  What  part?" 

"  The — er — part  of  a  clergyman,"  said  Mr.  Chandos, 
blandly,  airily. 

"  A  clergyman?"  echoed  Rawdon,  frowning. 

"  Yes;  you  would  play  it  so  well,"  murmured  Mr.  Chandos. 
"  You  would  look  and  speak  the  part  so  perfectly,  iny  dear 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

Rawdon.  And  now  that  I  come  to  think  of  it,  it  is  only  for  a 
rehearsal  that  I  shall  require  you." 

"  A  rehearsal?"  said  Kawdon,  still  frowning. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Chandos.  "  The — er — young  lady  who 
plays  the  part  of  the  bride — " 

"  It  is  a  marriage,  a  wedding,  then?" 

"  Exactly,"  assented  Mr.  Chandos.  "  How  quick  you  al- 
ways are!  Ah,  my  dear  Kawdon,  in  another  sphere,  in  sun- 
nier climes  than  these,  your  quickness,  your  adroitness  will 
meet  with  their  reward!" 

"  Go  on." 

"  I — er — the  young  lady  who  plays  the  part  of  the  bride  has 
a  peculiar  fancy,  a  strange  whim.  She  wants,  I  think,  to  give 
an  air  of  realism,  she  wants  to  thoroughly  realize  the  char- 
acter, and  she  is  therefore  anxious  that  the  rehearsal  of  the 
wedding  ceremony  should  take  place  in  a — er — real  church." 

Kawdon  started  and  stared  under  his  brows  at  the  sleek,  the 
blandly  smiling  Mr.  Chandos. 

"  A  real  church?    What  the  devil  do  you  mean?" 

"  Well,  when  I  say  a  real  church  I  allude  to  a  hoary  old 
ruin  near  here,  which,  I  think,  bears  the  name  of  St.  Mark's." 

Kawdon  nodded  silently,  and  refilled  his  pipe,  which  in  his 
astonishment  he  had  allowed  to  go  out. 

"  St.  Mark's — yes,"  said  Mr.  Chandos,  suavely.  "  The 
rehearsal  will  be  quite — er — private;  there  will  only  be  the 
bride  and  bridegroom  and  clergyman  present." 

Kawdon  raised  his  head. 

"  Who  is  to  be  the — who  is  to  play  the  part  of  bridegroom?" 
be  asked. 

Mr.  Chandos,  smiling  like  a  cherub,  touched  his  own  bosom. 

"  I,  my  dear  Kawdon." 

Rawdon  sprung  to  his  feet,  then  sunk  into  his  chair  again. 

"  By  Heaven,  I — I  thought  so!"  he  muttered. 

"  It  is  a  small  matter,  a  very  trivial  affair,"  said  Mr.  Chan- 
dos. "  You  will  only  be  engaged  a  few  minute* — how  long 
does  the  marriage  ceremony  take?  And — er — you  can  play 
your  part  the  day  before  you  sail  for  the  colonies." 

Rawdon  rose  and  stood  with  his  back  to  him. 

"  Chandos,"  he  said,  hoarsely,  "do  you  know  what  this 
means  for  both  of  us?" 

Mr.  Chandos  smiled. 

"  Pardon,  my  dear  Rawdon?" 

"  It  means  penal  servitude,  perhaps  for  life,"  whispered 
Sawdon,  almost  inaudibly. 

Mr.  Ckandos  laughed. 


OHCE    IN   A    LIFE.  127 

*e  My  dear  Rawdon,  your  usual  good  sense  seems  to  have 
taken  leave  of  you.  Penal  servitude  for  a  piece  of  harmless 
foolery,  for  a  piece  of  amateur  play-acting.  Tut,  tut!  my 
dear  fellow,  you  are — forgive  me — absurd;7'  and  he  laughed  a 
laugh  of  pleasant  badinage. 

"  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about,"  said  Rawdon,  grimly; 
"and,  by  Heaven!  I  see  your  game.  Chandos,  you  must  be 
mad  to — run  such  a  risk.  Besides,  the  girl — whoever  she  is 
— can  not  be  so  ignorant  of  the  world—  "  his  voice  died  away, 
and  his  hand — it  trembled — reached  for  the  glass  of  almost 
neat  gin. 

"  My  dear  Rawdon,  pray  clear  your  mind  of  such  absurd 
and  ridiculous  misapprehensions.  This  is  merely  a  rehearsal 
of  a  portion  of  a  play  some  friends  and  I  are  getting  up  for 
future  representation.  All — mark  me — all  you  have  to  do  is 
to  attend  at  an  appointed  place — in  the  ordinary  garb  of  a 
clergyman — and  repeat  the  marriage  service;  not  a  difficult 
part,  you'll  admit. " 

"  I — by "  Rawdon  swore — "  I  can  not  do  it!" 

"  Well,  well/'  said  Mr.  Chandos,  "  I  will  not  force  you. 
Er — er— touching  this  money  I  offered  you,  my  dear  Rawdon. 
There  may  be,  I  say  there  may  be  some  difficulty  in  raising  it. 
You  mustn't  be  disappointed  if  I  fail  in  carrying  out  my  in- 
tention of  helping  an  old  friend." 

Rawdon  sunk  into  the  chair  from  which  he  had  risen,  and 
hid  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  Mr.  Chandos  stole  to  his  side 
and  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Tut,  tut!  My  dear  Rawdon,  you  are  absurdly,  childishly 
nervous  and  fearful.  Remember,  rf  you  don't  wish  your  name 
to  appear,  it  need  not.  If  you  like,  you  can,  when  you  dress 
for  the  part,  wear  one  of  those  wigs  the  clever  costumers 
make;  a  wig  no  one  could  possibly  recognize  you  in,  and  after 
the  ceremony — ahem! — the  rehearsal — is  over,  you  can  join 
your  ship.  You  leave  the  country  never  to  return." 

Rawdon  jerked  off  the  hand  from  his  shoulder. 

"Chandos!"  he  exclaimed,  hoarsely,  "you — you  are  a 
devil!" 

Mr.  Chandos  laughed  at  his  friend's  very  extravagant  com- 
pliment. 

"  No,  no;  it  is  you  who  are  a  very  foolish  fellow,"  he  mur- 
mured, persuasively.  "  Dear  me,  to  refuse  me  this  slight  serv- 
ice when  I  am  so  anxious  to  help  you.  Tut,  tut!  my  dear 
Rawdon,  you  must  be  very  fond  of  poverty,  and  duns,  and  dirt 
• — and  with  such  abilities,  such  prospects.  Who  knows  what 
position  you  may  not  attain  to  in  the  distant  land  to  which  I 


128  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

had  hoped  I  should  assist  you.  Who  knows!  My  dear  Raw- 
clon,  this  is,  believe  me,  the  great  chance,  the  golden  oppor- 
tunity of  your  life." 

As  he  spoke  he  stealthily  filled  the  tempted  man's  glass. 

"  But  come,  never  mind.  Drink  up,  my  dear  Rawdon,  and 
let  us  part  good  friends." 

He  insinuated  the  glass  into  Rawdon's  shaking  hands. 

Rawdon  took  a  long  draught.  His  face  flushed — he  rose 
and  struck  Chandos  on  the  back  and  laughed — a  shaky,  hys- 
terical laugh. 

"  I'll— I'll  do  it,"  he  said.  "  Mind,  I  take  no  risk.  I  leave 
the  moment  the— the  play's  over,  and  I  have  the  money  in 
my  hand  while  I  read  the  service — you  hear?" 

"  My  dear  Rawdon,"  murmured  Mr.  Chandos,  "  of  course 
you  shall.  You  shall  be  treated  with  all  the  consideration  due 
to  a  talented  actor  I  engaged  to  play  a  difficult,  delicate  part." 

Rawdon  sunk  into  the  chair,  white  and  haggard,  notwith- 
standing the  gin. 

"  Yes/'  he  said,  hoarsely,  "  I'll  do  it.  I'd— I'd  commit 
murder — by  Heaven,  this  is  worse! — for  one  more  chance  in 
life!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

MR.  CHANDOS,  as  he  walked  home  to  the  mill  cottage  that 
night,  sometimes  chuckled  and  glowed  with  satisfaction,  and 
sometimes  grew  pale  and  felt  nervous. 

It  was  a  terribly  dangerous  game  he  was  playing,  but  the 
great  god,  Chance,  was  helping  him,  and  the  prize  was  so 
great,  he  coveted  it  with  so  mad  a  longing,  that  he  felt  as  if  he 
must  grasp  it  at  any  risk. 

To  have  Lyra,  who  had  laughed  at  him,  Lyra,  with  all  her 
loveliness  and  innocence,  in  his  power,  at  his  feet!  The 
thought  sent  the  blood,  warmed  by  hot  gin  and  water,  spin- 
ning through  his  veins. 

When  he  reached  the  cottage  he  found  Mary  sitting  up  for 
him — for  he  was  late,  and  she  eyed  his  flushed  face  rather  curi- 
ously as  he  dropped  into  a  chair  and  began  to  rub  his  ankle. 

"  Miss  Lyra  told  me  to  say  that  the  master  was  very  low 
and  restless  to-night,  sir,  and  that  she  wouldn't  leave  him,  if 
you'd  excuse  her,  sir." 

And  Mr.  Chandos  felt  relieved;  for,  once  or  twice  on  his 
way  home,  the  thought  of  meeting  the  direct  gaze  of  Lyra's 
sad,  lovely  eyes  had  sent  an  unpleasant  chill  through  liirn. 

"Very  well,  Mary,"  he  said;  "quite  right.     But  I  hope 


OtfCE    IN"    A    LIFE.  129 

Miss  Lyra  will  not  be  knocked  up.  You  must  help  her  all  you 
can,  Mary.  By  the  way,"  he  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and 
drew  out  a  sovereign,  "  I  want  to  give  you  a  little  present  as 
an  acknowledgment  of  all  your  kind  attentions  to  me." 

"  Oh,  Lor'!"  exclaimed  Mary,  eying  the  gold  coin  reposing 
in  her  huge  red  palm.  "  Is  all  this  for  me?  You  be  kind, 
sir." 

"  Not  at  all,  my  good  Mary,"  said  Mr.  Chandos,  benevo- 
lently. "  I  should  have  liked  to  have  made  you  a  handsome 
present,  but  I  am — er — not  a  rich  man." 

"  Lawks  goodness  sake,  this  is  plenty!"  said  honest  Mary. 

"  I'm  glad  you  think  so,"  said  Mr.  Chandos.  "  Er — Mary, 
I  expect  some  letters.  There  is  only  one  post  a  day,  is  there?" 

"  Only  one,  sir." 

"  Ah,  well,  perhaps  you  will  bring  the  letters  to  me;  I 
mean,  bring  them  all,  and  I  can  pick  out  mine  and  give  the 
rest  to  Miss  Lyra." 

Mary  nodded  unsuspiciously. 

"  All  right,  sir;  I'm  not  good  at  reading  writing  hand.  But 
it  isn't  many  letters  that  come  to  the  cottage." 

Mr.  Chandos  was  quite  aware  of  that,  but  deemed  it  well  to 
be  on  the  safe  side.  There  must  be  no  communication  between 
the  Chesters  and  the  outside  world,  if  he  could  prevent  it. 

He  paused  outside  the  door  of  Mr.  Chester's  room  on  his 
way  to  his  own,  and  heard  Lyra's  voice,  low  and  soothing,  as 
she  spoke  to  her  father.  And  then  he  went  to  bed,  to  lie 
awake  and  gloat  in  anticipation  over  his  coming  victory. 

Lyra  sat  and  watched  beside  her  father  through  the  long 
night,  with  an  anxious,  loving  absorption  which  scarcely  per- 
mitted of  any  thought  of  self. 

"  Love  took  up  the  harp  of  life  and  smote  on  all  its  chords  with  might, 
Smote  the  chord  of  self  that,  trembling,  passed  in  music  out  of  sight." 

Once  or  twice  the  remembrance  of  what  she  had  done,  the 
promise  she  had  made  to  this  man,  Geoffrey  Barle,  flashed 
across  her,  but  though  it  made  her  shudder,  there  was  no 
thought  of  drawing  back.  She  would  have  laid  down  her  life 
to  save  her  father,  why  then  should  she  hesitate  to  make  the 
sacrifice  which  Geoffrey  Barle  demanded?  What  did  it  matter 
whether  she  was  happy  or  unhappy,  so  that  her  father  should 
end  his  days  in  peace  and  rest?  Once  the  vision  of  Dane  rose 
before  her^,  but  she  put  it  from,  her  firmly,  resolutely.  He  had 
come  into  her  life  and  gone  again  liks  a  dream;  she  must 
never  even  think  of  him  again,  now  that  she  was  going  to  be 
the  wife  of  another  man.  If  she  thought  of  Geoffrey  Barle's 

6 


130  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

stipulation,  that  the  marriage  must  be  a  secret  one,  that  sh« 
must  not  tell  a  single  person  of  their  engagement,  it  did  not 
seem  strange  to  her,  or  unreasonable.  What  did  it  matter? 
Nothing  mattered  so  long  as  her  father  was  saved  from  this 
terrible  trouble  which  had  almost  killed  him. 

Mr.  Chester's  condition  was  unaltered  in  the  morning.  He 
seemed  dazed  and  confused,  and  scarcely  conscious  of  any- 
thing going  on  around  him;  at  any  rate,  quite  indifferent. 
During  the  morning,  Lyra  ventured  to  allude  to  the  anxiety 
that  haunted  him. 

"  You  are  not  anxious,  unhappy  now,  father,  after — after 
what  Mr.  Barle  said?  The  money  will  be  paid  now,  and  all 
will  be  well." 

He  looked  at  her  vacantly. 

"  He  did  say  so?"  he  said.  "  You  are  sure  he  said  so?  I 
thought  thai  I  might  have  dreamed  it." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  said,  earnestly.  "  You  did  not  dream  it; 
it  is  quite  true.  The  money  will  be  paid,  and  you  need  not 
worry  yourself  any  more.  Mr.  Barle  has  been — very  kind, 
father." 

He  nodded,  staring  vacantly  beyond  her. 

"  Yes,  very  kind,"  he  assented.  "  Why  is  he  going  to  lend 
ms  the  money?  Do  you  know?" 

Lyra  turned  her  pale  face  away. 

"  He — he  is  a  friend,  father,"  she  faltered. 

He  sighed,  but  seemed  satisfied  with  her  reply,  and  presently 
sunk  back  and  closed  his  eyes. 

Lyra  did  not  go  down-stairs  that  day.  She  shrunk  from 
meeting  the  man  she  had  promised  to  marry.  In  a  day  or 
two  she  would  be  able  to  do  so,  would  be  able  to  thank  him 
properly  for  all  he  was  doing  for  them. 

And  Mr.  Chandos  was  rather  relieved  by  her  absence,  for  he 
had  rather  a  bad  headache,  and  felt  nervous  and  out  of  sorts, 
the  results  of  the  gin  and  water.  He  spent  the  day  completing 
his  plans;  looked  up  the  tidal  trains  in  "  Bradshaw;"  went 
put  to  Barnstaple  and  bought  some  clothes  and  a  nice  travel- 
ing-trunk, and  wrote  to  his  bankers. 

The  next  day,  as  he  sat  alone  at  breakfast,  Mary  brought 
him  hi  some  letters.  There  was  one  for  Mr.  Chester,  in  a 
business-like  envelope,  the  contents  of  which  Mr.  Chandos 
guessed  as  he  turned  it  over  and  over. 

"  Will  you  tell  Miss  Lyra  that  I  should  like  to  see  her  for  a 
few  minutes,  if  she  can  leave  her  father,  Mary?"  he  said, 
blandly;  and  presently  Lyra  entered  the  room. 


OffCE    ITS    A    LIFE.  131 

He  rose  and  took  her  hand  and  held  it,  looking  into  her 
pale  face  with  tender,  respectful  solicitude. 

"  My  dear  Lyra,  how  good  of  you  to  come  down  to  me!'*  he 
murmured. 

She  slowly  withdrew  her  hand,  which  he  had  not  ventured 
to  kiss,  and  went  to  the  window. 

"  You  sent  for  me,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  the  voice  of  a 
slave  who  has  pledged  himself  to  obey. 

"  How  is  your  father  this  morning?"  he  asked. 

"  He  is  just  the  same/'  said  Lyra,  with  a  faint  sigh. 

"Ah!  not  well  enough  to  be  troubled  with  business  mat- 
ters?" 

Lyra  started  slightly  and  turned  her  eyes,  full  of  apprehen- 
sion, upon  him. 

"  No.  Oh,  no!"  she  cried.  "  He  can  not — what  is  it?  Is 
there  fresh  trouble?"  and  her  lips  trembled. 

"  I  am  afraid  so,"  he  replied,  gravely,  sympathetically.  "  I 
see  that  there  is  a  letter  for  him  here.  It  looks  as  if  it  were 
on  business.  I  fear  it  would  not  be  wise  to  give  it  to  him.  Do 
you  not  think  you  should  open  it  and  learn  its  contents?" 

Lyra  took  it  and  hesitated,  but  only  for  a  moment.  As  she 
read'  it  a  faint  cry  escaped  her. 

"  It  is  cruel,  cruel!"  she  cried. 

"  May  I  read  it,  dearest  Lyra?"  murmured  Mr.  Chandos. 

She  held  it  out  to  him  and  turned  away. 

The  letter  was  from  Mr.  Jarvin,  who  remarked  that  he  had 
seen  the  drop  of  the  shares,  and  that  under  the  circumstances 
he  felt  compelled — as  a  business  man — to  curtail  the  fortnight's 
grace  to  that  of  a  week;  and  that  he  should  be  extremely 
obliged  if  Mr.  Chester  could  possibly  pay  him  even  before  the 
expiration  of  that  period. 

Certainly  chance  was  on  Mr.  Chandos's  side. 

"  It  is  cruel!"  he  murmured.  "  But,  Lyra,  dearest, do  not 
let  it  worry  or  distress  you.  Your  father  must  not  see  this 
letter;  it  would  make  him  ill  again,  perhaps  dangerously — " 

"  No,  no!"  she  panted. 

He  put  the  letter  in  his  pocket  and  went  to  her  and  took 
her  hand. 

"  Do  not  look  so  anxious,  Lyra,"  he  said.  "  It  only  means 
that  this  money  must  be  paid  at  once,  and  it  shall  be  paid." 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  gratefully. 

"  You — you  will  pay  it  at  once?"  she  said,  almost  inaudi- 
bly. 

"  Of  course  I  will,"  he  said.  "  I  have  written  to  raise  the 
money,  and  it  will  be  here  presently.  Have  no  fear,  Lyra. 

I'.' I        •     T   /  . 


132  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

When  an  Armi — ahem! — a  Barle  pledges  his  word,  it  may  be 
relied  on  to  the  hilt." 

"  Thank  you.  I — I  can  not  thank  you  enough,'*  she  fal- 
tered. 

"  I  do  not  want  your  thanks,  I  have  yourself,  dearest,"  he 
murmured.  "  Lyra,"  his  voice  sunk,  and  he  glanced  at  the 
door  to  see  if  it  was  closed — "  Lyra,  I  find  that  our  marriage 
must  take  place  at  once. " 

"  At  once!"  she  echoed,  not  with  a  start,  but  with  a  dull 
kind  of  apathy. 

"  Yes,"  he  murmured.  "  I  may  have  to  leave  here  at  any 
moment.  My  uncle  is  not  well.  I  told  you  that  I  am  his 
heir,  you  remember?  and  I  may  have  to  go  to  him.  You  must 
not  refuse  if  I  ask  you  to  be  my  wife  soon,  quite  soon. " 

She  shook  her  head. 

**  No,"  she  said,  quietly,  in  the  same  dull,  helpless  way. 

He  stroked  her  hand. 

"  My  dearest  Lyra,  you  quite  realize  that  our  marriage  must 
be  a  secret  one?" 

She  assented  by  a  movement  of  her  head. 

"  You  have  not  told  any  one — anyone  of  our  engagement?*' 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  faint  surprise  at  his  question,  and 
his  eyes  fell. 

"  No  one?" 

"  No  one,"  she  said.     "  You  asked  me  not  to  do  so." 

"  Yes,  yes!  Dear  girl!  I  asked  because  it  is  so  important 
to  me — to  both  of  us — that  no  one  should  know.  You  see,  I 
have  to  think  of  both  our  futures  now.  If  our  marriage  were 
known  it  would  mean  ruin  to  both  of  us.  I  do  not  care  for 
myself,  but  I  am  bound — it  is  my  duty — to  regard  your  wel- 
fare." 

She  did  not  speak,  but  listened  in  the  same  dull,  half -con- 
fused way.  She  was  thinking  of  her  father  only,  the  gray- 
haired  old  man  whom  she  was  going  to  save  from  further 
trouble. 

"  I  have  been  making  arrangements,  dearest,"  Mr.  Chandos 
went  on,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  shabby  carpet,  "  and  do  you 
know  I  have  hit  upon  what  I  hope  you  will  consider  a  very 
happy  idea." 

She  waited  silently. 

"  This  is  my  idea,"  he  said.  "  You  remember  the  day  we 
went  to  St.  Mark's?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  now,  why  shouldn't  we  be  married  there?" 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  138 

He  waited,  but  she  was  still  silent,  her  sad  eyes  fixed  on  his 
shifty  ones. 

"  It  is  a  church,  you  know,  and  marriages  take  place  there. 
Why  shouldn't  we  walk  over  there  one  morning — to-morrow, 
say." 

She  started  slightly,  and  a  faint  color  crept  into  her  face; 
but  it  vanished  in  a  moment  and  left  it  pale  again.  Why 
should  she  hesitate? 

"  Well — the  day  afterward,"  he  murmured,  watching  her 
closely.  "I  can  get  the  license."  He  saw  by  her  face  that 
she  did  not  understand.  "  But  I  need  not  trouble  you  with 
all  that.  You  can  trust  me,  Lyra,  dearest?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  the  same  dull  regard.  Why  should 
she  not  trust  him?  Incapable  of  guile  herself,  it  never  oc- 
curred to  her  to  suspect  him. 

"  A  friend  of  mine,  a — er — clergyman,  a  remarkably  good 
fellow,  will  perform  the  ceremony.  It  will  be  the  quietest 
wedding  that  ever  took  place,  I  should  think.  We  shall  just 
walk — or  shall  we  row? — over  to  the  church  as  if  we  were  out 
for  a  stroll,  the  ceremony  will  be  got  through  as  quickly  and 
quietly  as  possible,  and  then  you  can  come  back  to  your  father 
and  resume  your  loving  care  of  him  as  if — as  if  nothing  had 
happened.  When  he  is  better — and  directly  he  knows  that  this 
money  has  been  paid,  directly  he  feels  that  this  burden  has 
been  lifted  from  his  heart,  he  will  get  better,  dearest — " 

"  Yes,  yes!"  she  said,  with  the  first  touch  of  interest;  "  oh, 
yes!" 

"  Yes.     Then  you  consent,  dearest?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  apathetic  again.  "  I  will  take  Mary.  I 
can — can  take  Mary?" 

Mr.  Chandos  started  apprehensively. 

*•'  Er — er — Mary?  I — er — think  not,  my  dear  Lyra.  No,  it 
would  not  be  wise  to  take  Mary.  She  is  a  good  girl,  a  very 
nice,  good  girl,  but  I'm  afraid  she  would  not  be  able  to  keep 
her  own  counsel;  and — er — it  is  important,  it  is  seriously  im- 
portant that  our  marriage  should  remain  a  secret  at  present." 

"  I  am  to  go  alone?"  said  Lyra,  shrinkingly. 

"  Why  not?"  he  said,  smilingly,  but  watching  her  closely. 
"  Ah,  well — yes,  I  understand.  Let  me  see.  Ah,  yes!  the 
very  thing.  I  will  ask  a  lady  friend,  a  relation  of  mine,  to  be 
present.  That  will  do,  will  it  not,  dearest?" 

Lyra  assented  with  a  sigh. 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  It  does  not  matter.  And—and  this 
money — my  father — ' 

"  Shall  be  paid  before  we  go  to  church.     I  am  only  waiting 


134  '  ONCE    IN    A    JJ7E. 

for  it.  I  have  had  to  borrow  it,  Lyra  " — lie  turned  his  eyes 
away  modestly. 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"  You  have  been  very  good,  very  kind/'  she  said.  "  I  will 
do  whatever  you  wish/' 

He  took  her  hand  and  raised  it  to  his  lips. 

"  How  can  I  express  my  love  for  you,  my  sense  of  your  in- 
finite trust  in  me,  Lyra?"  he  murmured.  Then  as  she  left 
the  room  he  sunk  into  a  chair  and  drew  a  long  breath.  "  The 
day  after  to-morrow,"  he  breathed.  "It  is  not  long  to  wait." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  day  of  Lyra's  sacrifice  dawned  sadly,  as  if  in  sympathy 
for  her. 

Up  the  valley  of  the  Taw  a  gray  mist  drove  before  a  driz- 
zling rain.  She  woke  with  the  plaintive  cry  of  the  curlews  in 
her  ears,  woke  with  that  awful  sense  of  impending  calamity 
which  falls  upon  us  in  the  first  moments  of  waking. 

Her  sleep  had  been  a  restless  one,  haunted  by  dreams.  At 
one  time  she  saw  herself  standing  beside  Geoffrey  Barle  before 
the  altar  in  the  ruined  church,  with  Dane,  amidst  the  shadows, 
looking  on  with  a  sad,  despairing  face;  at  another  she  dreamed 
that  her  father  and  she  were  wandering  homeless  and  friend- 
less through  the  streets  of  a  great  city,  followed  by  Geoffrey 
Barle  laughing  at  and  taunting  them. 

She  rose  with  a  heavy  sigh,  and  went  into  the  adjoining 
room  where  the  old  man  lay. 

He  was  asleep,  and  breathing  so  lightly  that  it  looked  almost 
like  the  sleep  of  death.  She  bent  over  him  and  kissed  him, 
then  dressed  herself  and  went  down-stairs. 

Mr.  Chandos  was  waiting  for  her.  He  too  had  slept  but 
badly,  and  felt  a  certain  shakiness  which  not  even  a  stiff  glass 
of  whisky  had  succeeded  in  banishing;  but  he  smiled  tenderly 
end  with  a  pretense  of  gayety  as  he  took  her  hands  and  kissed 
them. 

"  Our  marriage  morn,  dearest,"  he  whispered.  "  I  wish  it 
were  a  brighter  one;  but  love  laughs  at  clouds,  Lyra;  and  there 
will  be  no  company  with  fine  dresses  to  spoil.  After  all,  such 
a  solemn  ceremony  as  a  marriage  should,  1  think,  be  performed 
in  a  quiet,  solemn  manner,  and  you  are  too  sensible,  too  wise, 
to  attach  any  importance  to  the  usual  fuss  and  excitement." 

She  withdrew  her  hands,  and  went  to  the  table  without  a 
word. 

He  looked  covertly  at  her  pale,  sad  face. 


OKCE   IN   A   LIFE.  135 

"  All  the  arrangements  are  complete,"  he  went  on,  in  a  low 
Yoice.  "  My  friend,  the  clergyman,  will  be  at  the  church  at 
eleven;  we  will  go  out  as  if  we  were  going  for  a  simple  stroll, 
and — and  it  will  be  all  over  in  a  few  minutes.  Mary  will  look 
after  your  father,  and  he  will  scarcely  miss  you. " 

"  You — you  have  the  money?"  asked  Lyra,  without  raising 
her  eyes. 

He  took  out  his  pocket-book  and  tapped  it. 

"  Yes,  yes.  You  must  not  let  that  worry  you  any  more, 
dearest.  The  money  shall  be  paid  to-day.  I  will  send  it  di- 
rectly after  breakfast.  By  the  way,  I  think  it  would  be  as 
well  to  send  Griffith  to  Barnstaple,  or  further,  if  you  can.  He 
is  always  pottering  about  the  place,  and  may  suspect  something, 
or  happen  to  go  near  the  church." 

"  Very  well,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh.  It  was  hard  that  she 
should  have  to  deceive  even  the  faithful  Griffith,  who  had  been 
almost  a  second  father  to  her,  who  loved  her  so  devotedly. 

"  You  might  send  him  to  Barnstaple  for  some  jelly,  or  wine, 
or  something  of  that  kind  for  your  father,"  said  Mr.  Chandos. 
"He  won't  refuse." 

"  He  would  not  refuse,  whatever  I  sent  him  for,"  said 
Lyra. 

Mary  came  into  the  room  as  she  spoke,  and  Mr.  Chandos 
Chastened  to  dispose  of  her. 

"  Mary,"  he  said,  "  I  have  persuaded  Miss  Lyra  to  take  a 
little  walk  with  me  this  morning;  you  will  remain  in  Mr. 
Chester's  room  while  we  are  away." 

"  Lawks!  yes,  sir,"  said  Mary;  "but  what  a  morning  for  a 
walk.  But  there,  Miss  Lyra  don't  mind  the  weather,  and  it's 
tune  she  went  out." 

Mr.  Chandos  smiled  reasaiiringly  at  Lyra  as  Mary  went  out 
again. 

"  Everything  goes  well  with  us,  dearest,"  he  said.  "  There's 
Griffith  outside;  suppose  we  send  for  him  and  start  him  off?" 
and  he  went  to  the  window  and  called  Griffith. 

He  came  in,  taking  off  his  rough  fur  cap,  and  looked  from 
one  to  the  other;  but  his  eyes  rested  with  anxious  gaze  on 
Lyra's  pale  face. 

"  Miss  Lyra  wants  you  to  go  to  Barnstaple  for  some  wine 
and  other  things  for  Mr.  Chester,"  said  Mr.  Chandos,  blandly. 
•  Griffith  glanced  at  him,  then  looked  again  at  Lyra,  who  sat 
with  downcast  eyes. 

"  I  can  send  m,"  he  said.  "  I'm  busy  with  the  garden  this 
morning." 


136  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

"  Miss  Lyra  would  rather  you  went,"  said  Mr.  Chandos, 
still  blandly.  "  Would  you  not?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Lyra,  her  eyes  still  fixed  on  her  plate.  "  Yes, 
Griffith." 

"  Very  well,'*  he  said,  with  sullen  obedience.  "  But  won't 
you  come  with  me,  Miss  Lyra?  The  walk  would  do  you  good." 

Mr.  Chandos  colored. 

"  Miss  Lyra  can  not  leave  her  father;  you  forget,  Griffith," 
he  said. 

"  No,  I  don't,"  said  Griffith,  sullenly.  "  Why  don't  you 
go  yourself?  You  can  walk  into  Barnstaple  this  morning  as 
well  as  you  walked  in  the  other  night.  You'd  be  of  some  use 
then." 

Mr.  Chandos  flushed  still  more  hotly. 

"  I — er — my  ankle  pains  me  this  morning,  my  good  Grif- 
fith," he  said. 

"  You  must  go,  Griffith,"  said  Lyra,  in  a  low  voice. 

Griffith  assented  by  a  growl,  and  Mr.  Chandos  penciled  a 
list  of  articles  required  and  tossed  it  to  him.  "  You  need  not 
hurry  back,  Griffith,"  he  said. 

"  Hurry  or  no  hurry,  what's  that  to  you?"  growled  Griffith, 
half  audibly,  as  he  shuffled  out  of  the  room. 

Mr.  Chandos  smiled  when  he  had  gone. 

"  That  disposes  of  him,"  he  remarked.  "  Really,  Lyra,  I 
don't  see  your  need  of  this  ancient  and  extremely  disagreeabld 
retainer. 

Lyra  looked  up  wearily. 

"  Need  of  Griffith?"  she  said.  "  He  is  most  faithful,  de- 
Toted— " 

"Oh,  I  know,"  said  Mr.  Chandos,  airily.  "But  never 
mind;  we  can  discuss  that  later  on.  Be  sure  you  are  not  late, 
dearest,"  he  added,  as  Lyra  rose;  "  we  must  not  keep  the 
clergyman  waiting.  That  is  a  terrible  breach  of  etiquette,  you 
know." 

Lyra  made  no  response,  but  went  up  to  her  father's  room. 

He  was  awake,  but  lay  almost  as  still  as  if  he  were  asleep. 

She  knelt  beside  the  bed,  and  took  his  thin  hand  hi  hers  and 
clasped  it. 

4 'Are  you  better,  father?"  she  murmured;  and  she  won- 
dered if  her  voice  sounded  as  strangely  in  his  ears  as  it  did  in 
hers. 

"  Better?    Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  hi  his  weak,  listless  voice. 

"  I — I  am  going  out  for  a  little  while  with  Mr.  Geoffrey 
Barle,"  she  said,  after  a  moment.  "  You  won't  mind  being 
left  with  Mary,  father?" 


OKCE    DT   A    LIPE.  137 

"  Going  out — going  away?"  he  said;  and  a  faint  expression 
of  alarm  and  discontent  came  into  his  face. 

"  Not — not  for  long,"  she  said,  feeling  as  if  she  Trere  chok- 
ing. "  I  shall  be  back  before  you  have  missed  me." 

"  No,  don't  be  long,"  he  said.  "  However  short  a  tune  it 
is,  I  shall  miss  you,  Lyra." 

He  was  silent  a  moment;  then,  with  his  eyes  resting  vague/y 
on  her,  he  said,  as  if  to  himself: 

"  You  have  grown  very  like  your  mother  lately,  Lyra.  She 
was  a  beautiful  woman;"  and  he  sighed.  "If  she  had  only 
lived!  But  she  was  taken  from  me,  and  since  I  lost  her" — 
he  stopped  and  closed  his  eyes,  but  opened  them  a  moment 
later — '  you  have  been  a  good — a  loving  daughter  to  me,  Lyra. 
I — I  wish  I  could  have  made  you  happier;  I  wish  I  could  have 
done  for  you  what  other  fathers  do.  You  have  been  buried 
alive  here.  It  is  my  fault — my  selfishness — " 

"  No,  no,  father,"  she  said,  chokingly;  "  you  have  nothing 
to  blame  yourself  for.  I  have  been  very  happy.  We  have 
been  very  happy,  and  we  shall  be  happy  again,  now — now 
that  this  trouble  has  been  removed  from  us.  You  know  that 
it  has  gone,  father;  you  know  that  this  money  has  been — will 
be — paid.  You  heard  what  Mr.  Barle  said — you  have  not 
forgotten?" 

He  knit  his  brows  as  if  he  were  striving  to  remember. 

*'  The  money — the  money  which  Mr.  Jarvin  wanted?"  he 
said. 

"  Yes,  father." 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  he  said,  but  vacantly.  "It  will  be 
paid,  Mr.  Barle  said.  It  is  very  kind  of  him,  but — " 

"  But  what,  dear?"  she  asked,  pressing  his  hand. 

He  looked  beyond  her  with  a  troubled  frown. 

"  Lyra,  I — I  don't  like  Mr.  Barle,"  he  murmured. 

Lyra  shrunk  back,  then  bent  her  face  over  the  wasted  hand. 

"  Mr.  Barle  has  been  very  kind,"  she  murmured,  almost 
inaudibly.  "  He  has  been  our  friend — our  only  friend.  Don't 
— don't  say  that,  father." 

"  I  don't  like  him,"  he  repeated,  with  the  weak  querulous- 
ness  of  a  child.  "  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could  trust  him.  Why 
should  he  lend — give  us  this  money?  I — I  wish  he  would 
leave  the  cottage." 

Lyra  laid  her  face  on  his  head  and  kissed  him. 

"  You  must  not  say  that,  father,"  she  faltered.  "  But  for 
him—" 

She  did  not  finish  the  sentence;  but  the  old  man  did  not 
appear  to  expect  her  to  do  so. 


138  OHCE    IN   A    LIFE. 

"  Yes,  lie  has  been  very  kind,"  he  said.  "  I — I  do  not 
understand  it;  but —  Will  you  be  gone  long,  Lyra?  I  miss 
you  even  if  you  are  away  five  minutes.  It  is  almost  as  if  youi 
mother  were  sitting  there." 

Lyra's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  got  up  and  bent  over 
him. 

"  Kiss  me,  father,  for — for  my  mother's  sake,"  she  jpur- 
mured. 

He  kissed  her,  then  closed  his  eyes  and  sighed  weariL;. 

Mary  came  into  the  room. 

"  Mr.  Barle  says  as  you're  to  get  your  things  on,  Miss 
Lyra,"  she  said,  in  the  audible  whisper  which  is  so  aggravating 
to  the  sick. 

Lyra  stood  for  a  moment  or  two  holding  her  father's  hand.- 
then  left  the  room. 

It  was  raining  still,  and  she  put  on  her  water-proof  over  her 
plain  serge  dress.  Then  she  knelt  beside  her  bed,  and  prayed 
a  short,  feverish  prayer,  not  for  herself,  but  her  stricken  fa- 
ther, for  whom  she  was  sacrificing  herself. 

Almost  before  the  prayer  had  left  her  lips  she  heard  Geof- 
frey Barle's  voice  calling  her.  She  went  down,  the  palest, 
saddest  of  brides,  but  outwardly  as  calm  as  a  statue. 

"  It  is  all  right,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand;  his  own  trem- 
bled. "  Mary  is  with  your  father,  and  Griffith  has  started. 
There  is  absolutely  no  one  to  see  or  interfere  with  us.  Come. " 

Lyra  followed  him  from  the  cottage.  As  she  closed  the  gate 
after  her  she  looked  up  at  the  window  of  her  father's  room. 

"  It  is  for  you,  for  you,"  she  murmured. 

"  What  did  you  say?"  asked  Mr.  Chandos,  tenderly;  but 
she  did  not  reply.  "  The  question  is,  shall  we  row  or  walk?" 
he  said,  as  they  went  toward  the  beach. 

"  Let  me  row,"  she  said. 

They  got  into  the  boat  and  Lyra  pulled  down-stream.  A 
strange,  unnatural  numbness  seemed  to  have  taken  possession 
of  her. 

Mr.  Chandos,  with  his  coat  collar  turned  up,  sat  shivering 
in  the  stern  of  the  boat,  though  the  weather  was  anything  but 
cold. 

With  slow,  steady  strokes  Lyra  pulled  the  boat  opposite  St. 
Mark's.  Mr.  Chandos  offered  her  his  hand,  and  they  landed. 

"  I  expect  my  friend,  the  clergyman,  will  be  there  waiting," 
he  said,  with  a  dry  cough. 

;<  Will  your  cousin  be  there,  too?"  asked  Lyra,  listlessly. 

"  My  cousin?"  He  had  quite  forgotten  the  promised 
cousin.  "  Oh,  yes,  I  hope  so;  she  said  she  would." 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  139 

Lyra  threw  out  the  anchor,  and  they  walked  up  the  beach 
to  the  ruined  church.  As  they  approached  it,  Lyra  saw  a  gen- 
tleman with  a  pale,  haggard  face  standing  by  the  door.  He 
carried  a  small  black  bag. 

"  My  friend,  the  clergyman,"  said  Mr.  Chandos,  thickly. 
"  Dear  me,  how  cold  it  is.  He  is  a  remarkably  nice  man, 
my  dear  Lyra." 

The  remarkably  nice  man  came  forward  at  this  juncture 
and  raised  his  hat,  and  Lyra  instinctively  shrunk  back  from 
the  haggard  face  and  blear  eyes. 

"  This  is  Mr.— er — Green,"  said  Mr.  Chandos,  with  a  sickly 
smile.  "  Is  everything  ready,  Green?" 

Eawdon,  after  a  swift  glance  at  the  bride,  a  glance  followed 
by  a  start  of  surprise  and  admiration,  nodded. 

"  Everything  is  ready,"  he  said. 

Lyra  looked  round  wearily,  not  suspiciously. 

"  Where  is  the  lady,  your  cousin?"  she  asked. 

Mr.  Chandos  coughed. 

"  Dear  me,  she  is  not  here.  Tut,  tut!  how  annoying!  But 
never  mind,  dearest,  her  presence  is  not  necessary — not  at  all; 
is  it,  Green?" 

"  No,"  said  Eawdon,  in  a  husky  voice;  "  not  at  all  neces- 
sary. " 

He  glanced  at  Lyra  as  he  spoke;  then,  as  her  sad  eyes  met 
his,  he  looked  away  across  the  river;  but  he  seemed  to  feel  her 
eyes  still  on  him,  and  eventually  his  own  were  fixed  on  the 
ground.  He  seemed  possessed  by  a  nervousness  which  appeared 
to  communicate  itself  to  Mr.  Barle,  for  that  gentleman  looked 
up  and  down  the  river  with  an  anxious,  half-f earful  expression. 

Of  the  three  standing  there  in  the  mist  and  rain,  the  uncon- 
scious victim  was  the  calmest. 

"  Er — shall  we  go  in?"  said  Mr.  Chandos,  breaking  the 
silence  which  had  fallen  upon  them.  With  trembling  hand  he 
drew  out  the  key  from  the  ivy  and  opened  the  door,  and  they 
passed  into  the  church. 

It  smote  chill  and  damp,  and  Eawdon  shuddered  visibly, 
and  seemed  to  pause  as  he  looked  round.  Mr.  Chandos  saw 
the  momentary  hesitation,  dread,  remorse,  whichever  it  may 
have  been,  and  tried  to  assume  a  confident  and  assured  air. 

"  You've  got  your  surnlice  in  that  bag,  I  suppose,  Green?" 
he  said,  pleasantly,  but  in  the  subdued  voice  in  which  on9 
speaks  in  a  sacred  edifice. 

Eawdon  nodded  gravely. 

"I— er — I  aeypose  it  really  is  not  necessary,"  said  ME 


140  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

Chandos,  glancing  from  one  to  the  other;  "  but  1  think  you 
would  like  Mr.  Green  to  wear  it,  Lyra?" 

Lyra  was  standing  in  the  aisle,  one  hand  resting  on  the  edgo 
of  a  pew,  her  eyes  fixed  with  a  sad,  dreamy  expression.  At 
that  moment  the  voice  of  Dane  seemed  sounding  in  her  ears. 
She  seemed  to  see  his  face  in  the  duskiness  round  the  altar. 
She  started  slightly,  and  turned  to  Mr.  Chandos,  and  he  re- 
j  peated  his  question. 

"  As  you  please/'  she  said,  with  dull  indifference. 

"  Ah,  well;  better,  perhaps,"  said  Mr.  Chandos.  "  If  you 
wiL  sit  dovm  for  a  moment,  dearest,  I  will — er — help  Mr. 
Green." 

He  beckoned  Eawdon  into  a  little  curtained  recess  and 
gripped  him  by  the  shoulder. 

"  Quick,  man!"  he  said,  harshly.  "  Quick,  and  get  it  over; 
we  may  be  seen,  interrupted." 

Rawdon  started  and  shook  off  his  hand. 

"  Who — who  is  she?"  he  asked,  in  a  hoarse  whisper.  "  She 
is  a — a  lady  as  well  as  beautiful.  She  looks  ill,  frightened. 
By  Heaven!  I've  half  a  mind — "  He  put  his  hand  to  his 
brow  and  glared  round  him  as  if  fearfully. 

Mr.  Chandos  snatched  the  bag  from  him,  opened  it,  and 
took  out  a  surplice. 

"  Here,  put  it  on,"  he  said.  Eawdon  still  stood  staring 
about  him.  At  the  bottom  of  the  bag  was  a  flask. 

Mr.  Chandos,  with  a  low  exclamation  of  satisfaction,  took  it 
put,  poured  some  of  the  contents  into  the  cup,  and  pressed  it 
into  Rawdon's  shaking  hand. 

"  Drink,  man,"  he  said,  "  and  let  me  take  a  drink,  too. 
It's — it's  the  chill  of  this  place  that  upsets  one." 

"  That  and — and  the  sight  of  her,"  murmured  Rawdon, 
after  he  had  gulped  down  the  neat  spirit.  "  She  looks  like  an 
angel.  Her  face  will  haunt  me  as  long  as  I  live.  God  forgive 
us,  Chandos  1" 

Mr.  Chandos  forced  the  surplice  over  Rawdon's  head. 

"  Hush!"  he  said,  warnmgly.  "  What — what  nonsense 
you  talk!  I  tell  you  she  is  here  of  her  own  free  will.  There 
— there  has  been  no  force.  Quick,  or  she  will  wonder  why  we 
are  waiting." 

Rawdon,  though  the  surplice  was  on,  still  stood  gazing  be- 
fore him;  and  Mr.  Chandos,  as  a  last  resource,  pulled  out  his 
pocket-book,  and  extracting  some  bank-notes,  held  them  up 
with  a  sickly  smile. 

'  You  see?"  he  said.     "  It's  not  bad  pay  for— for  such  a 
email  piece  of  work.     If  you're  sharp  over  it,  you  will  have 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  141 

time  to  catch  the  afternoon  train  to  Southampton,  Think  of 
it,  my  dear  Rawdon!  You  will  be  at  Havre  in  no  tune.  The 
steamer  starts  to-morrow  night.  You  are  off  to  fresh  life, 
fresh  hopes,  prosperity.  Come.'* 

Rawdon  walked  up  the  aisle  and  took  his  place,  and  Chan- 
dos,  very  pale,  and  with  a  strange  tightening  of  the  lips,  ap- 
proached Lyra  and  offered  her  his  arm.  At  the  sound  of 
Rawdon's  voice,  hollow  and  husky,  Chandos  started,  and  could 
not  refrain  from  looking  round;  but  Lyra  seemed  unmoved, 
and  still  possessed  by  the  death-like  calmness. 

Chandos,  as  he  put  the  ring  on  her  finger,  felt  the  hand  he 
held  strike  like  ice.  His  own  was  now  burning  hot. 

Rawdon' s  voice  died  away  with  the  last  words  of  the  service, 
and  with  bent  head  and  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground  he  went  with 
unsteady  steps  down  the  aisle  and  into  the  curtained  recess. 

Chandos  followed  with  Lyra,  and  motioned  her  to  a  pew. 

"  Wait  for  a  moment,  dearest/'  he  said.  "  I — I  am  going 
to  get  the  certificate." 

Lyra  sunk  into  the  pew.  She  did  not  know  that  she  ought 
to  sign  the  register;  and  if  she  had  known,  would  not  have 
remembered.  She  was  in  a  dream,  in  which  she  still  heard 
Dane's  voice,  saw  his  face. 

Mr.  Chandos  found  Rawdon  leaning  against  a  chair,  trem- 
bling and  shaking.  The  sweat  stood  in  great  drops  upon  his 
brow. 

"  It  is  horrible,  horrible!"  he  gasped. 

Mr.  Chandos  held  the  curtain  tightly  closed  and  glared  at 
him. 

"  Pull  yourself  together,  man,"  he  said,  angrily.  "  The 
thing's  done  now,  your  work's  finished,  and  here  are  your 
wages."  He  thrust  the  notes  into  Rawdon's  hand.  "Get 
out  of  that  thing  and  be  off  as  quickly  as  you  can.  You  must 
come  and  say  good-bye,  of  course;  and — and — for  Heaven's 
sake  try  and  look  less  like  a  corpse,  or  a  man  who  is  going  to 
be  hanged. " 

Rawdon  shuddered. 

"  I — I — deserve  to  be  hanged  for  this  day's  work,  Chan- 
dos," he  said,  gloomily. 

Chandos  produced  the  flask  again  and  thrust  it  into  Raw- 
don's  hand  that  held  the  notes. 

"  If  you're  so  frightened,  all  the  more  reason  for  you  mak- 
ingyourself  scarce  as  soon  as  possible,"  he  said. 

He  stuffed  the  surplice  into  the  bag,  and,  raising  his  voice, 
said  loud  enough  for  Lyra  to  hear: 

"  So  sorry  you  have'  to  hurry  away,  Green;  but  as  it  is  a 


143  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

case  of  sickness  we  must  not  detain  you,  much  as  we  should 
like  to  do  so.  I  know  how  scrupulously  you  do  your  duty, 
my  dear  fellow." 

He  linked  his  arm  in  Eawdon's  and  led  him  out. 

"  Say  just  as  little  as  you  can,  and,  for  goodness'  sake,  try 
and  smile,"  he  added,  in  a  whisper. 

Eawdon,  with  downcast  eyes,  stood  before  Lyra. 

"  I — I  must  wish  you  good-bye,  Mrs.  Barle,"  he  said.  "  I 
wish  you  every  happi — 

His  voice  broke,  and  his  face  grew  deathly  white. 

Mr.  Chandos  cut  hi  with  a  laugh  that  rang  hollow  and 
ghost-like  in  the  quiet  place. 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,  my  dear  Green,"  he  said.  "  Don't 
wait."  He  actually  took  him  by  the  shoulder  and  turned  him 
toward  the  door.  "  We  will  excuse  you;  I  know  how  exacting 
a  country  parson's  duties  are." 

Eawdon  glanced  over  his  shoulder  at  Lyra,  then,  without 
another  word,  walked  down  the  aisle  and  out  of  the  door. 

Mr.  Chandos  waited  a  moment,  then  he  took  up  the  water- 
proof and  put  it  over  Lyra's  shoulder. 

"  Come,  dearest,"  he  said — "  my  own  wife." 

For  the  first  tune  since  they  had  entered  the  place  Lyra 
shivered. 

"  Are  you  cold?"  he  asked,  tenderly.  "  It  is  chilly  in 
here;  poor  Green  noticed  it.  He — he  is  a  great  invalid,  and 
was  not  at  all  well  this  morning." 

"  I  am  not  cold,"  said  Lyra,  in  the  same  dull,  indifferent 
voice. 

Mr.  Chandos  locked  the  door  and  hid  the  key  in  the  ivy. 

"  Dear  old  church,"  he  murmured,  sentimentally.  "  So  full 
of  romance  and — er — poetry.  We  could  not  have  been  mar- 
ried in  a  sweeter  place.  I  shall  always  remember  it,  always. 
What  are  you  looking  at,  dearest?"  He  broke  off,  for  Lyra 
was  gazing  at  the  river,  at  a  sand-bank  just  showing  above  tide. 

It  was  the  spot  on  which  she  had  been  stranded  the  day  she 
saved  Dane's  life. 

"  Nothing,"  she  said,  turning  her  dreamy  eyes  upon  him. 
"  Let  us  go  back;  my  father  may  miss  me." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  assented.  "  Ah,  Lyra,  you  have  a  husband 
as  well  as  a  father  now;"  and  he  drew  her  arm  within  his; 
but  he  reflected  that  some  one  might  see  them,  and  dropped 
it  suddenly. 

They  got  into  the  boat  and  Lyra  rowed  up-stream.  It  was 
hard  work,  but  it  brought  no  color  to  her  pale  face.  Eawdon 


IK    A    LIFE.  143 

had  called  it  the  face  of  an  angel;  it  was  more  like  the  face  of 
a  martyr. 

"  I  wish  I  could  help  you,  dearest,"  murmured  Mr.  Chan- 
dos,  sweetly. 

:e  You  have  helped  my  father,"  she  said,  with  a  wan  smile. 
:<  You  will  send  that  money  away  directly,  will  you  not?" 

"  Directly  we  get  home,  my  own,"  he  responded.  "  I  am 
afraid  you  are  getting  wet."  ...,jj 

"  It  does  not  matter,"  she  said,  absently;  *'  lam  used  to  it, 
and  I  have  nothing  on  that  rain  will  spoil." 

She  stopped  rowing  as  she  spoke,  and  her  lips  quivered. 
They  were  almost  the  same  words  she  had  spoken  to  Dane. 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Chandos,  tenderly.  "It  is  not  a  very 
suitable  wedding-dress  for  my  dear  one;  but  you  shall  soon 
'  walk  in  silk  attire. '  Lyra,  I  long  for  the  time  when  I  shall 
see  you  properly  dressed,  and  in  a  sphere  more  worthy  of  your 
beauty  and  grace.  Directly  your  father  is  better  we  will  go  to 
London,  Paris —  Don't  you  think  he  is  well  enough  for  us  to 
leave  him  now?" 

Lyra  stopped  rowing  again,  and  a  spasm  of  fear,  of  dread, 
shot  across  her  face. 

"  Leave  him?"  she  breathed — "  leave  him?  Oh,  no,  no! 
You  said — you  promised — " 

"  All  right,  dearest,"  he  said,  promptly;  "  there  is  no 
hurry.  I  was  only  thinking  of  your  happiness,  pleasure — " 

"  I  should  not — could  not  be  happy  away  from  him!" 

He  lowered  his  pale-blue  eyes,  and  an  ugly  smile  curled  his 
thin  lips  for  a  second. 

How  he  would  pay  her  for  every  such  speech — presently, 
presently! 

"  You  shall  stay  with  her  as  long  as  you  like,  dear  one," 
he  murmured.  "  I  am  your  humble,  devoted  slave,  obedient 
!*o  your  lightest  word." 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THET  reached  the  landing  in  front  of  the  cottage.  Mr. 
Chandos  looked  round  apprehensively,  but  no  one  was  to  be 
seen. 

"  Thank  Heaven,  that  ruffian  hasn't  got  back  yet!"  he 
said  to  himself,  meaning  Griffith. 

Lyra  put  the  oars  back,  and  sat  for  a  moment,  her  hands 
folded  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  river. 

"  You  are  tired,  dearest,"  he  said;  "  let  me  help  you  out." 


144  OKCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

She  just  touched  his  hand  with  her  small,  cold  one  as  she 
got  out  of  the  boat,  and  they  walked  up  to  the  cottage. 

As  they  entered,  Mary  met  them  at  the  door. 

"  Why  are  you  not  with  my  father?"  asked  Lyra,  reproach- 
fully. 

"  Master's  all  right,  Miss  Lyra/'  said  Mary.  "  He's  asleep 
— has  been  sleeping  ever  since  you  went,  just  like  a  chile. 
We  shall  have  him  down  again  hi  a  day,  just  like  old  times. 
Lor',  how  cold  you  looks,  Mr.  Barle!"  she  added,  staring  with 
round  eyes  at  Mr.  Chandos,  who,  what  with  excitement  and 
the  drizzling  rain,  was  chilled  to  the  bone.  "  You  look  as 
pale  as  if  you'd  seen  a  ghost!" 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  taken  a  chill,  Mary,"  he  said.  "  I 
think  a  glass  of  hot  whisky  and  water  would  be  a  good  thing." 

Mary  grinned. 

"  All  right,  sir;  I'll  get  it." 

She  brought  the  hot  water  and  whisky,  and  he  mixed  him- 
self a  pretty  stiff  glassful. 

Lyra  had  gone  straight  to  her  father's  room.  He  was,  as 
Mary  had  said,  asleep;  and  Lyra  knelt  beside  the  bed  and  laid 
her  heavy,  aching  head  on  his  arm. 

She  had  saved  him;  she  was  married — married.  It  all 
seemed  ghastly,  unreal,  and  dream-like,  and  she  could  not  re- 
alize it,  though  she  tried  to  do  so.  The  church,  the  haggard, 
care-worn  face  of  the  clergyman,  even  her  husband  himself, 
appeared  phantasmal  and  visionary,  a  kind  of  night- terror. 

She  rose  presently,  smoothed  her  father's  pillow,  and  tak- 
ing off  her  wet  water-proof,  went  down-stairs. 

Mr.  Chandos  looked  warmer;  there  were  two  hectic  spots  on 
his  cheeks,  and  his  pale  eyes  were  restless  and  watchful. 

They  sat  down  to  lunch,  and  though  he  made  a  pretense  of 
eating,  it  was  a  pretense  only.  Lyra  eat  nothing,  but  sat 
looking  out  of  the  window,  with  the  expression  of  apathetic 
indifference  which  had  sat  upon  her  face  all  through  the 
ordeal. 

Mr.  Chandos  eyed  her  covertly,  and  now  and  again  a  smile 
curved  his  lips.  He  would  be  patient  with  her  for  a  day  or 
two,  a  week  perhaps,  then  he  would  show  her  that  he  was 
master. 

She  rose  without  a  word  when  the  lunch  was  over,  and  went 
upstairs  again.  Mr.  Chester  was  still  sleeping,  and  she  sat  be- 
side him  with  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap. 

Mr.  Chandos  helped  himself  to  some  more  whisky,  and  the 
spots  on  his  cheeks  grew  more  hectic. 

As  he  took  long  draughts  of  the  spirit  and  water,  he  began 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  145 

to  ask  himself  why  he  should  be  patient,  why  he  should  wait. 
Why  shouldn't  he  insist  upon  her  leaving  the  cottage  with  him 
that  night?  She  was  his  wife,  his  property. 

He  heard  her  come  down  the  stairs,  and  hastily  hiding  the 
glass  on  the  sideboard,  forced  a  smile  to  his  lips  as  she  entered, 

"  How  is  he  now,  dearest?"  he  asked. 

"He  is  asleep,"  she  said.  '  "  I  came  to  ask  you  about  the 
money." 

Mr.  Chandos  frowned  and  looked  down. 

"Asleep  still?  That  is  good,  very  good.  I  told  you  that 
he  would  get  better  directly  this  trouble  was  removed  from  his 
mind.  The  money?  Why  are  you  so  anxious,  dear  one?  Do 
you  think — suspect — that  I —  He  stopped  under  the  direct 
gaze  of  her  guileless  eyes. 

"  Suspect?"  she  said,  as  if  she  did  not  understand  him. 
"It  is  only  because  I  want  to  tell  him,  the  moment  he  wakes, 
that  the  money  has  been  sent,  that  he  has  no  longer  need  to 
fear." 

"  Just  so,"  he  said;  "  very  natural.  I  will  send  it  at  once. 
If  you  like,  you  and  I  will  go  and  post  it.  Perhaps — perhaps  " 
— he  coughed — ' '  we  might — you  see,  he  is  so  much  better — 
we  might  take  a  little  trip  this  afternoon.  What  do  you  say 
to  going  to  Combe  for — for  a  day  or  two?" 

She  looked  at  him  witji  more  surprise  than  alarm. 

"  And  leave  him?  Oh,  no,  no;  I — I  could  not.  You  will 
not  ask  me." 

His  face  darkened  sullenly. 

"  Really,  my  dear  Lyra,  I  think  you  should — er — study  my 
wishes  a  little.  Eemember  that  I  am — er — your  husband. " 

She  stood  looking  at  him  with  a  growing  sense  of  fear. 

"  I  can  not  leave  him,"  she  said,  simply,  almost  inaudibly, 
and  went  out. 

Mr.  Chandos  got  his  glass  again,  swearing  under  his  breath, 
and  Ms  face  grew  an  unwholesome  red. 

Lyra  went  into  the  garden  and  sat  in  the  arbor  seat.  The 
mist  had  thickened,  the  river  was  scarcely  visible;  and  yet  she 
saw  it  all  so  plainly,  saw  Dane  swimming,  sinking  in  the 
stream,  felt  his  hair  brush  against  her  face  as  she  lifted  him 
into  the  boat. 

She  tried  to  shut  out  the  vision,  to  put  her  thoughts  from 
her;  for  was  she  not  the  wife  of  another  man,  the  man  who 
had  saved  her  father? 

She  got  up  after  awhile  and  wandered  down  to  the  water  s 
edge.  The  tide  had  risen;  through  the  mist  she  could  see  the 
coasting  vessels  floating  up  to  JBarnstaple.  Some  of  them 


146  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

would  be  going  back  to  sea  on  the  ebb.  A  wild  longing  to  be 
out  at  sea  in  one  of  them,  out  on  the  wide  sea,  away  from  the 
hideous  nightmare  that  weighed  like  lead  on  her  heart,  took 
possession  of  her. 

Then  suddenly  she  heard  her  name  called,  and  turning,  saw 
Mary  running  down  the  beach. 

"  Miss  Lyra!  Miss  Lyra!"  she  was  calling  wildly. 

A  swift  fear,  a  nameless  dread,  fell  upon  Lyra.  She  ran  to- 
ward her. 

"  What  is  it,  Mary?    Hush!  you — you  frighten  me!" 

Mary,  white  to  the  lips,  and  with  her  round  eyes  distended 
with  fear,  clutched  at  Lyra's  arm. 

"  Come — come  at  once,  Miss  Lyra!"  she  gasped.  "  The 
master — " 

Lyra  darted  past  her  like  an  arrow  from  a  bow,  and  ran  up 
the  stairs  to  her  father's  room. 

He  lay  as  she  had  left  him,  and  there  seemed  no  change  in 
him;  he  appeared  to  be  still  asleep.  But  as  she  bent  over  him, 
something  in  the  stillness  of  the  face  struck  her.  She  bent 
lower,  then  threw  herself  upon  him,  as  if  she  would  pluck  him 
from  the  hand  of  death.  Mary,  panting,  tried  to  raise  her. 

"  Don't  'ee,  don't  'ee,  Miss  Lyra!"  she  cried.  "  It's  no  use. 
It's  all  oyer.  Oh,  dear,  dear!" 

For  a  minute  or  so  Lyra  held  him  in  her  arms,  then  she 
rose,  and  brushing  the  hair  from  her  face,  looked  wildly, 
vacantly  round  her. 

"  When — when?"  she  gasped. 

"  I  don't  know,  miss,"  said  Mary,  through  her  sobs.  "  I 
was  sitting  here  quite  still  and  thinking  he  was  asleep,  and 
presently  I  got  up  to  draw  back  the  curtain,  and  the  light  fell 
on  his  face,  and — and  I  saw —  Oh,  Miss  Lyra,  don't  look  so!" 
she  broke  off,  for  the  expression  on  Lyra's  face  terrified  her. 

Lyra  sunk  beside  the  bed  and  laid  her  face  on  the  dead 
man's  breast. 

"  Don't  'ee,  don't  ee!"  implored  Mary,  putting  her  honest 
arm  round  the  bereaved  girl,  and  rocking  her  gently  to  and 
fro.  "  He's  at  rest  now,  Miss  Lyra.  He  went  in  his  sleep 
like  a  baby.  He's  happy  now.  Look  at  his  face. " 

Lyra  raised  her  tearless  eyes  and  looked  at  the  face.  There 
was  a  peaceful  smile  on  it;  then  she  uttered  a  wailing  cry. 
Mr.  Chandos  heard  it,  and,  after  a  moment  of  startled  listen- 
ing, came  up  the  stairs. 

;<  What — what  is  the  matter?"  he  asked;  then  he  saw,  and 
his  flushed  face  went  white. 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  147 

"  Oh,  take  her  away!  take  her  down-stairs!  She  mustn't 
stop  here,  or  she'll  go  mazed!"  cried  Mary. 

Mr.  Chandos  took  Lyra's  arm.  To  his  surprise  she  offered 
mo  resistance;  she  was,  indeed,  incapable  of  it.  He  led  her 
down-stairs  and  into  the  parlor,  and  put  her  into  a  chair. 

"  My — my  dear  Lyra,  my  dearest,"  he  murmured,  confused 
and  bewildered.  "  You — you  must  try  and  bear  up.  You 
must  not  give  way.  Remember  that,  though  your  father  has 
gone,  you — you  have  me."  The  hideous  mockery  of  the 
speech  struck  him  silent  for  a  moment.  "  Come,  Lyra,"  he 
went  on  after  {^moment  or  two,  "  it — it  is  all  for  the  best." 

She  looked  straight  before  her,  her  hands  clasped.  She  did 
not  hear  him.  Suddenly,  without  moving  her  eyes,  she  said, 
hoarsely: 

"  The — the  money,  you  have  sent  it?" 

Mr.  Chandos  started,  and  a  look  of  relief  and  satisfaction 
passed  over  his  face. 

"  No — fortunately,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  and  with  some 
surprise  at  her  question  at  such  a  momei?1 

She  raised  her  wild,  bewildered  eyes. 

"  Fortunately?    You — you  have  not  sent  it?" 

He  nodded  with  increased  satisfaction. 

"  No,  dearest.  I  was  just  going  to  do  so  when  I  heard  you 
cry  out.  It  is  most  fortunate.  Five  hundred  pounds  is  a 
large  sum,  and — er — worth  saving." 

She  rose,  steadying  herself  by  the  arm  of  the  chair,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  him  as  if  she  scarcely  heard,  scarcely  understood. 

"  The  money!"  .fell  from  her  lips,  hoarsely.  "  The  money 
you — you  promised  him !"  and  she  extended  her  hand. 

Mr.  Chandos  stared  at  her. 

"  Why — why  do  you  talk  of  that  now,  dearest?"  he  mur- 
mured, soothingly.  "  Hush!  be  calm,  Lyra." 

He  took  a  step  toward  her,  but  she  put  up  her  hand  to  keep 
him  away. 

"  Give — give  it  to  me!"  she  panted,  almost  inaudibly. 
was  his — his!    It  was  to  save  him  from  dishonor.     He  shall 
have  it.     Give  it  to  me!" 

He  thought  she  was  delirious. 

"  Lyra,  Lyra,  my  dear  Lyra!"  he  whispered,  trying  to  take 
her  hand. 

She  snatched  it  from  him,  and  still  clutching  the  chair, 
confronted  him. 

"  It  was  to  save  him — it  was  for  the  money — that  I  did  it!' 
the  said,  brokenly,  but  yet  with  a  kind  of  fierce,  desperate 


148  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

persistence.  "  You— you  shall  not  keep  it  from  him.  Givo 
it  to  me  that  I  may — pay — " 

The  voice  failed,  and  she  sunk  against  the  chain 

Mr.  Chandos,  half  angry,  half  frightened,  approached  her. 

"My  dear  girl/'  he  murmured,  "you  shall  have  the 
money — " 

"  Now,  now!    I  want  to  tell  him!"  broke  from  hero 

Chandos  scowled.  \ 

"  Be — be  reasonable,  dearest,"  he  said.  ''  What  is  the  use 
of  the  money  to  him  now.  Why  should  we  throw  away,  sim- 
ply throw  away,  a  large  sum — " 

She  rose  to  her  full  height  and  scanned  his  face  with  a  terri- 
ble gaze.  Then,  as  she  read  his  treachery  and  perfidy  in  his 
mean  face  and  shrinking  eyes,  she  shrunk  back  and  uttered  a 
cry  of  horror  and  loathing. 

The  cry  stung  Mr.  Chandos  like  the  thong  of  a  whip.  He 
caught  her  arm  none  too  gently,  and  put  his  face  close  to  hers. 

"  Lyra,  you  are  half  mad.  But  I — er — make  excuses  for 
you.  Go  to  your  own  room.  Come.  Do  you  hear?  I  don't 
— don't — want  to  be  angry  at — er — such  a  time — " 

He  put  his  arm  round  her  as  if  to  take  her  from  the  room. 
She  raised  her  hand  and  struck  at  him  wildly,  only  half  con- 
scious, in  her  frenzy  of  grief  and  horror,  of  what  she  was  do- 
ing, then  staggered  to  the  door. 

Mr.  Chandos,  his  face  tingling  and  red,  darted  before  her 
and  locked  the  door. 

"  Wait — sit  down!"  he  gasped. 

She  leaned  against  the  wall,  panting  and  wringing  her  hands. 

"  Let  me  go — to  him,"  she  breathed. 

"  Presently,  when — when  you  are  calmer,"  he  said,  in  a 
sullen  whisper.  "  You  are  not  in  a  fit  state  to  be  alone.  Come 
and  sit  down." 

He  put  his  hand  on  her  arm  as  he  spoke.  His  touch  seemed 
to  madden  her. 

"  Let  me  go!"  she  cried,  putting  her  hands  up  against  the 
door  in  a  blind,  pitiful  way. 

As  if  in  answer  to  the  appeal  of  her  groping  hands,  the 
handle  of  the  door  turned,  and  Griffith's  voice  was  heard  out- 
side calling  her  name. 

"Griffith!"  she  panted. 

The  next  moment  the  door  was  forced  and  Griffith  was  in 
the  room. 

She  fell  upon  him,  clutching  him  wildly. 

"  Griffith!  oh,  Griffith!"  she  cried;  then  she  tore  herself 
from  his  arms  and  staggered  up  the  stairs. 


ONCE    IN    A     LIFE.  149 

Griffith  stood,  his  gnarled  face  distorted  with  rage,  looking 
more  like  a  wild  animal  than  a  man. 

"  You — "  he  snarled  as  if  he  were  choking,  and  advanced 
upon  Chandos  with  his  huge  hairy  fist  raised. 

Mr.  Chandos  looked  round  the  room  in  a  frenzy  of  terror. 

"  Wait — stop!"  he  said,  hoarsely.  "  Don't — don't — hit 
me!  Listen!" 

Griffith  edged  round  the  table,  breathing  hard,  and  would 
have  been  upon  him  in  another  moment;  but  with  one  of  those 
inspirations  which  come  to  men  in  moments  of  deadly  peril 
and  despair,  Mr.  Chandos  overturned  the  table  between  him 
and  his  assailant,  and  with  a  cry  of  terror  darted  out  of  the 
door. 

Griffith  stumbled  over  the  table,  but  regained  his  feet,  and 
was  in  instant  pursuit. 

But  by  the  time  he  had  reached  the  garden,  Mr.  Chandos 
was  not  to  be  seen;  the  white  mist,  an  impenetrable  vapor, 
being  over  the  whole  scene. 

Mr.  Chandos,  too  cunning  to  run,  and  so  betray  his  where- 
abouts by  the  sound  of  his  footsteps,  crouched  down  behind 
the  hedge  and  listened  to  Griffith  blundering  about  and  breath- 
ing savage  imprecations;  then,  white  and  trembling,  stole  away 
along  the  river-bank  toward  Barnstaple. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

MK.  CHANDOS  cowered  behind  the  hedge  until  Griffith's 
footsteps  and  voice  died  away  in  the  distance;  then  he  rose, 
trembling  and  shaking  like  ague  personified. 

Most  of  your  two-penny  half -penny  villains  are  cowards,  and 
Mr.  Chandos  was  no  exception  to  the  rule.  He  was  possessed 
of  one  idea  only — the  desire  for  flight  and  safety.  There  had 
been  murder  in  Griffith's  eyes,  murder  in  his  voice  and  up- 
lifted hand,  and  Mr.  Chandos  felt  that  if  he  fell  into  this 
man's  clutches — whether  it  were  now,  or  next  week,  or  next 
year — there  would  be  no  hope  for  him. 

Lyra  would  be  sure  to  confide  in  Griffith;  the  vile  trick  by 
which  Chandos  had  hoped  to  get  her  into  his  clutches  would  be 
discovered,  and — well,  Mr.  Chandos  remembered  Rawdon's  re- 
mark anent  penal  servitude,  and  shuddered  like  a  half -drowned 
terrier.  His  terror  drove  all  his  passion  for  Lyra  and  his  de- 
sire for  revenge  completely  out  of  him.  All  he  wanted  was  to 
get  away — to  put  as  great  a  distance  between  him  and  the  mill 
cottage  as  possible. 

"  What  a  fool  I  have  been!"  he  muttered,  with  sundry 


150  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

oaths.  "  I  must  have  been  bewitched — must  have  lost  my 
senses!  Why,  I  may  be  overtaken  at  any  moment,  caught, 
and—" 

He  shivered  and  shook,  and  hurried  on  through  the  mist, 
scarcely  caring  where  he  went,  so  that  every  step  lengthened 
the  distance  between  him  and  the  place  he  had  suddenly  grown 
to  hate. 

Every  now  and  then  he  stopped  to  listen,  dreading  to  hear 
Griffith's  footsteps  and  hoarse  voice;  but  all  was  still. 

Presently  he  found  himself  at  the  beginning  of  Barnstaple 
quay.  The  station  was  not  very  far  off,  and  he  decided  to  go 
there,  hide  in  one  of  the  waiting-rooms,  and  slip  into  the  first 
train  for  London. 

"  Then  I'll  go  on  the  Continent,  America — anywhere,  for  a 
tune,"  he  muttered.  "  Thank  Heaven,  I've  got  the  money 
still;  I've  saved  that,  anyhow;"  and  he  tried  to  chuckle,  but 
the  attempt  was  a  failure. 

As  he  felt  his  way  along  the  quay — for  the  mist  was  still 
thick  and  heavy — he  heard  voices  near  him,  and  suddenly  two 
men  lurched  up  against  him. 

They  were  sailors.  One  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  and  both 
were  the  worse  for  liquor.  Mr.  Chandos  tried  to  avoid  them, 
but  the  man  without  the  coat  caught  him  by  the  arm  in  a  half- 
savage,  half-affectionate  grip. 

"  Halloo,  ship-mate!"  he  said,  lurching  upon  him  unstead- 
ily. "  Where  are  you  bound?  Without  your — hie — lights, 
too!  You  precious  near  run  me  and  my  mate  down — didn't 
he,  Jim?" 

"  So  he  did/'  assented  his  companion.  "  There's  a — hie — 
fine  for  sailing  without  lights  in  a  fog.  Glass  of  grog  all 
Tound — eh,  Willyum?" 

Willyum  nodded  with  drunken  gravity,  and  took  hold  of 
Chandos' s  other  arm. 

"  Hear  what  my  mate  says,  skipper?  Eight!  Come  along, 
then.  There's  a  grog-shop  round  her  somewhere,  though 
blarm  me  if  I  haven't  lost  the  bearings." 

Inwardly  fuming,  Mr.  Chandos  smiled  a  sickly  smile,  and 
forced  a  still  more  sickly  laugh. 

"  Stand  a  drink?  certainly,"  he  said,  with  mock  cheerful- 
ness. "  Here's  a  shilling  for  you.  I'm — er — I'm  in  a  hurry, 
or  I'd  join  you;"  and  he  tried  to  free  himself,  but  the  man 
held  him  tightly. 

^  "  No,  you  don't,"  he  said,  with  playful  sternness.     "  You 
ttin't  a-going  to  cut  your  cable  ic  that  surly  fashion.     Just 


ONCE    IN    A   LIFE.  151 

you  come  along  and  see  as  we  drink  fair,  or  Willyum'll  have 
more  nor  his  whack,  as  usual." 

"  What  d'ye  mean  by  that  insinuation?"  demanded  his  com- 
panion, turning  on  him  with  drunken  irritability. 

"  All  right/'  responded  the  first.  "  Keep  your  temper, 
Willyum;  anyways,  wait  till  we've  towed  this  stranger  into 
port.  Come  along,  mate;"  and  he  began  to  haul  Mr.  Chan- 
dos  back  along  the  road  that  led  to  the  cottage. 

Mr.  Chandos  struggled  and  fumed,  but  he  was  like  a  child 
in  the  grasp  of  the  burly  sailor. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  yer?"  demanded  his  captor. 

"  I'm  in  a  hurry,  my  good  man,"  said  Chandos,  feverishly. 
"  I  have  to  catch  a  train — " 

"  Train  be  blowed!"  retorted  the  sailor.  "  You  don't  want 
to  catch  no  train.  What  you  want  is  a  glass  of  good  hot  rum 
to  clear  this  fog  out  of  your  throat.  What!  would  yer?"  and 
his  grip  tightened  as  Mr.  Chandos  tried  to  slip  out  of  his  hands. 

Mr.  Chandos  groaned.  They  were  going  back  to  the  cot- 
tage. Griffith  might  appear  on  the  scene  at  any  moment.  He 
must  try  strategy. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said,  "  I'll  go  with  you;  but — er — don't 
pinch  my  arm." 

"  Right  you  are;  that's  sensible,"  responded  the  man;  and 
he  slid  his  huge  hand  up  to  Mr.  Chandos' s  shoulder. 

The  three  groped  their  way  along  the  quay,  the  two  sailors 
lurching  on  either  side  of  Chandos  for  some  yards;  then 
Chandos  heard,  or  thought  he  heard,  a  rough,  grating  voice 
shouting.  A  cold  sweat  broke  out  upon  him,  and  he  shook. 
It  must  be  Griffith,  and  he  would  be  upon  them  in  another 
minute. 

Possessed  by  the  demon  of  terror,  he  softly  and  gradually 
clipped  his  right  arm  from  the  sleeve  of  his  coat — his  captor's 
hand  was  on  his  left  shoulder;  then  pretending  to  miss  his 
footing,  lurched  against  his  neighbor. 

"  Hold  up,  mate!"  cried  Jim;  then  he  uttered  an  exclama- 
tion of  surprise  and  stared  at  his  companion.  "  Why,  I'm 
blarmed  if  he  ain't  given  us  the  go-by,  after  all,  mate,  and 
left  his  coat  behind  him — like  an  eel!" 

Willyum  swore  roundly  at  his  friend. 

"  He's  done  you  like  a  child,  you  chuckle-headed  lubber!" 

"  So  he  have^"  admitted  Jim,  with  a  drunken  voice;  "  but 
he's  left  his  coat  behind  him." 

"  His  coat!"  commented  Willyum,  sarcastically.  ';<  What's 
£he  good  o'  that?" 

"  All  depends  on  what's  in  it,"  retorted  Jim. 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

"  Give  it  here,*'  remarked  Wfllyum. 

"  Not  if  I  knows  it,"  hiccoughed  the  other.  "  It't  my 
prize,  mate." 

They  squabbled  over  the  coat  for  a  minute  or  two,  and 
James  finished  the  dispute  by  knocking  his  friend  into  the 
gutter,  and  then  calmly  got  into  the  garment. 

Mr.  Chandos,  meanwhile,  ran  on  toward  the  station.  He 
was  half  demented  with  fear,  and  he  fancied  he  could  still  hear 
Griffith's  voice.  Suddenly  it  flashed  upon  him  that  he  could 
scarcely  travel  to  London  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  and  he  stopped 
short,  panting  and  bewildered.  As  he  stood,  uncertain  and 
hesitating,  he  remembered  that  his  pocket-book,  with  the  five 
hundred  pounds,  was  in  the  pocket  of  his  coat! 

Yes,  there  was  nothing  for  it;  he  must  go  back  to  the  men 
and  regain  possession  of  his  coat  at  all  risks. 

He  retraced  his  steps  cautiously,  and  reached  the  men  as 
Willyum  slowly  picked  himself  out  of  the  gutter. 

"  Oh,  there  you  are,  are  you?"  he  exclaimed,  confronting 
Mr.  Chandos.  "  I'll  teach  you  to  play  tricks  on  your  betters, 
Jim!  Come  on!" 

As  he  spoke  he  flung  off  his  pea-jacket,  and  squaring  his 
arms,  advanced  threateningly. 

Mr.  Chandos's  teeth  chattered  in  his  head. 

"  Stop — wait!"  he  gasped.  "It's — it's  a  mistake!  I'm 
not  your  friend!  I've — I've  come  back  for  my  coat!  I'll  buy 
it  of  you!  I'll—" 

A  drunken  laugh  came  from  behind  him,  and  at  the  sound 
of  it  Willyum  hurled  himself  forward. 

Mr.  Chandos  sprung,  with  extraordinary  nimbleness,  out  of 
the  way,  and  the  two  friends  collided. 

Scarcely  conscious  of  what  he  was  doing,  Mr.  Chandos 
picked  up  the  pea-jacket  and  gazed  at  them.  There  was 
i  sound  of  a  struggle,  a  drunken  laugh  of  satisfaction,  and 
then  a  heavy  splash.  Only  one  man  stood  in  the  mist  on  the 
edge  of  the  quay. 

Mr.  Chandos  uttered  a  cry  of  terror  and  sprung  forward. 
Willyum  was  leaning  over  the  quay,  his  hands  resting  on  his 
knees,  sailor-fashion. 

"  Man  overboard!"  he  said,  with  drunken  gravity. 

"Great  Heaven!"  gasped  Chandos.  "  He'll— he'll  be 
drowned!" 

"Drowned!"  hiccoughed  Willyum.  "What,  Jim?  Not 
he!  He  can  swim  like  a — a  fish!" 

Mr.  Chandos  peered  into  the  misty  depth.     He  could  hear 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  153 

the  tide  washing  against  the  stone  wall,  but  he  could  see 
nothing. 

He  laid  a  shaking  hand  on  the  sailor's  shoulder. 

"  Are — are  you  sure  he  can  swim — that  he  is  quite  safe?" 
he  gasped. 

"Sure  as  eggs,"  responded  Willyum.  "  Let's  go  down  to 
the  grog-shop.  I'll  lay  my  life  Jim'll  be  there  afore  us!" 

Mr.  Chandos  seemed  incapable  of  movement.  He  stood 
and  stared  into  the  mist  beneath  him,  his  teeth  chattering,  his 
hair  almost  on  end.  Suddenly  he  heard  voices  calling,  from 
a  vessel,  as  it  seemed,  and  the  sound  roused  him  from  his 
stupor  of  terror. 

Without  a  word  he  turned  and  ran  blindly  toward  the 
station. 

It  was  not  until  he  got  into  the  light  of  the  gas-lamps  that 
he  remembered  the  coat  on  his  arm.  With  a  shudder  he  put 
the  rough  thing  on,  and  turning  up  the  collar,  made  his  way 
to  the  refreshment-room. 

"  Give  me — give  me  a  shilling's  worth  of  brandy,"  he  said, 
as  cheerfully  as  he  could.  "  This  fog  has  nearly  choked  me." 

The  girl  behind  the  bar  served  him  with  the  spirit,  and 
with  his  back  to  the  light,  Mr.  Chandos  disposed  of  it. 

On  inquiring  at  the  booking-office,  he  learned  that  a  train 
for  London  was  due  in  thirteen  minutes.  Like  a  man  in  a 
nightmare,  he  took  a  third-class  ticket — for  it  occurred  to  him 
that  in  his  present  attire  he  would  be  conspicuous  in  a  first- 
class  carriage — and  kept  in  a  quiet  corner  till  the  train  came 
up. 

What- he  endured  during  those  ten  or  twei/e  minutes  it  would 
be  difficult  to  describe;  but,  still  like  a  man  under  the  spell  of 
a  very  bad  dream  indeed,  he  got  into  the  carriage  and  sunk, 
with  a  groan,  into  the  furthest  corner. 

He  let  himself  into  his  chambers  with  his  latch-key,  in  the 
gray  of  the  summer  dawn,  and  at  once  took  off  the  hideous  pea- 
jacket.  He  would  have  liked  to  have  burned  it,  but  you  can 
not  burn  cloth  without  creating  a  smell  which  travels  for 
miles,  and  the  only  way  of  hiding  it  that  occurred  to  him  was 
that  of  packing  it  at  the  bottom  of  a  trunk  full  of  old  clothes. 

He  did  this,  and  then  threw  himself  upon  the  bed  to  rest 
and  think.  But  the  latter  operation  was  not  compatible  with 
the  former;  for  when  he  began  to  think,  he  realized  his  peril. 

He  had  been  guilty  of  the  crime  of  perpetrating  a  mock 
marriage;  that  meant,  if  he  were  discovered,  penal  servitude; 
but  in  addition,  it  was  not  at  all  improbable,  if  the  sailor  was 
drowned,  that  he,  Chandos,  might  be  suspected  and  charged 


154  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

with  murder.  Why,  he  had  actually  been  seen  wearing  the 
man's  coat! 

Mr.  Chandos  stifled  a  cry  in  the  bed-clothes,  and  then  sprung 
up  and  changed  his  clothes  for  a  traveling  suit.  If  he  were 
quick  he  could  catch  the  tidal  train  for  Paris,  and  thence  go — 
well,  anywhere — Spain,  Mexico;  any  place  where  the  extradi- 
tion treaty  was  not  in  force,  and  he  could  escape  his  pursuers. 

Leaving  a  penciled  note  on  the  table  for  his  servant,  to  the 
effect  that  he  should  not  be  back  for  some  time,  he  got  into  a 
cab  and  reached  Charing  Cross  just  in  tune  to  catch  the  tidal 
train.  And  it  may  safely  be  said  that,  of  all  the  passengers 
who  underwent  the  horrors  of  that  short  but  cruel  ordeal  be- 
tween Dover  and  Calais,  Mr.  Chandos  Armitage  was  the  most 
wretched. 

Faint  with  hunger  and  seasickness,  he  hid  himself  for  a 
night,  a  night  only,  in  an  out-of-the-way  hotel  in  Paris,  and 
left  early  next  morning  for  Spain,  a  considerably  sadder,  per- 
haps a  wiser,  but  by  no  means  a  better  man. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

A  ifEEK  later,  Lyra  stood  at  the  cottage  gate.  An  open 
letter  was  in  her  hand,  but  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  square 
tower  of  Barnstaple  Church,  and  she  was  thinking  of  the  dead 
father  who  lay  at  rest  in  his  quiet  grave.  Even  if  she  could 
have  recalled  him  to  life,  she  would  not  have  done  so,  for  she 
had  come  to  know  that  her  loss  was  his  gain.  He,  at  any 
rate,  had  been  spared  the  knowledge  that  his  child  was  married 
to  a  villain;  for  in  that  one  moment  when  Chandos  had  shrunk 
from  her  searching  gaze,  she  had  read  his  miserable  soul  as 
plainly  as  if  it  had  been  an  open  book. 

She  had  her  out-door  things  on,  and  a  small  portmanteau 
was  at  her  feet.  Black  makes  even  stout  people  look  some- 
what thin,  and  in  her  plain  black  frock  of  merino  and  simple 
bonnet,  Lyra  looked  almost  ethereal. 

A  man,  a  stranger — in  fact,  a  man  hi  possession — lounged 
at  the  cottage  door,  smoking  a  short  clay,  and  presently  Grif- 
fith, with  a  growl,  pushed  past  him  and  came  limping  down 
the  path. 

Lyra  turned  to  him  with  a  sad  smile. 

"  Is  it  nearly  time,  Griffith?"  she  said. 

"  Yes/'  he  said,  his  gnarled  face  working  with  suppressed 
emotion.  "  It's  nearly  time,  if  you've  made  up  your  mind, 
and  nothing  I  can  say  will  alter  it." 

Lyra  shook  her  head  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  bent  shoulder. 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  15» 

*'  No,  Griffith/'  she  said,  in  a  low  but  quite  steady  Toice, 
"  nothing.  My  mind  is  made  up,  and  nothing  can  alter  it. 
I'm  afraid  you  think  me  very  ungrateful,  Griffith;"  and  she 
sighed. 

"  No,"  he  said,  with  a  catch  hi  his  voice,  "  not  ungrateful, 
but  stubborn — stubborn,  Miss  Lyra.  Why  should  you  go  out 
into  the  world  while  I'm  left  to  work  for  you?  I  ve  enough 
money  saved  to  buy  new  furniture.  I  can  earn  enough  to  keep 
us  two — " 

Lyra  shook  her  head  with  a  gentleness  which  was  more  con- 
vincing than  any  fervent  refusal. 

He  looked  up  at  her  with  mournful  scrutiny. 

"  Sometimes,  since  I  heard  of  this  whim  of  yours — for  it  is 
a  whim,  Miss  Lyra—I've  thought  that  there  was  some  other 
reason  for  your  going.  I've  wondered  if  that  fellow,  Mr. 
Barle,  had  anything  to  do  with  it.  I've  asked  myself  if  you 
was  af eared  of  him." 

Lyra  turned  her  head  away  and  shuddered  slightly. 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  Mr.  Barle,  Griffith." 

He  gnawed  at  his  thumb  nail,  eying  her  sadly,  anxiously. 

"  There's  something  between  you  and  him  that  I  can't  make 
out,  Miss  Lyra,"  he  said.  "  What  had  happened  that  you  and 
he  should  be  quarreling  that  day  the  master  died?"     His  voice 
dropped.    "  You've  never  told  me,  and  I'm  not  quick  enough  • 
to  guess.     Won't  you  tell  me — Griffith — Miss  Lyra,  dear?" 

She  looked  straight  before  her  for  a  moment,  then  she 
turned  her  sad  eyes  upon  him. 

"  No,  Griffith,  I  can  not  tell  you.  You  promised  not  to  ask 
me,  you  remember?  I  could  not  tell  you  or  any  one.  He 
has  gone;  he  will  not  come  back." 

"If  he  only  would,"  he  said,  between  his  teeth.  "  Miss 
Lyra,  I  mistrusted  him  from  the  first.  He  was  like  one  of 
those  brown  adders  you  see  in  the  sand-hills.  I  wish  he'd 
broken  his  neck  that  day  he  fell  from  the  cliff." 

Lyra  sighed. 

"  Don't  let  us  talk  of  him  for  the  few  moments  we  have  to 
spend  together.  You  mean  to  stay  here,  Griffith?" 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  doggedly;  "  I  shall  stay  here,  Miss  Lyra. 
The  rent  isn't  more  than  that  of  a  laborer's  cottage,  and  I  can 
earn  it.  I've  grown  fond  of  the  place.  But  that  isn't  all.  I 
feel  that  some  day  you  may — well,  you  may  want  to  come 
back" — he  looked  at  her  eagerly;  and  Lyra,  feeling  the 
glance,  suppressed  a  shudder — "  and  if  you  do,  why,  here  I 
shall  be,  and  here  will  be  a  shelter  for  you.  Yes,  Miss  Lyra, 
dear,  I  shall  stay  here.  I've  had  work  promised  me,  and  I 


156  OKCE    IN"    A    LIFE. 

can  buy  a  bit  of  furniture —  But  all  that's  nothing.  What 
becomes  of  me  doesn't  matter;  it's  you,  you,  my  dear  mis- 
tress— " 

His  voice  broke  and  he  turned  away. 

Lyra  forced  a  smile. 

"Why,  Griffith,"  she  said,  cheerfully,  "I  shall  be  all 
right.  I  am  a  very  fortunate  young  person.  You  told  me 
when  I  answered  the  advertisement  that  there  were  hundreds, 
hundreds  wanting  the  situation,  and  that  I  should  have  no 
chance;  but  you  see  I  have  got  it.'* 

Griffith  grunted  discontentedly. 

"  Situation!  The  word  galls  me.  You,  a  Chester,  going 
out  into  a  situation!" 

Lyra  laughed.  It  was  only  the  shadow  and  semblance  of 
her  old  laugh. 

"  Why  not?"  she  said.  "  No  one  who  is  poor  ought  to  be 
too  proud  to  earn  their  own  living;  and,  somehow,  Griffith,  I 
think  I  shall  be  happy  and  contented,  the  lady  writes  so 
frankly  and  kindly  " — she  glanced  at  the  open  letter  in  her 
hand — "  and  there  is  so  very  little  for  me  to  do;  and  that  is 
fortunate,  for  there  is  so  very  little  I  could  do."  She  sighed. 
"  All  the  other  people  that  advertised  wanted  me  to  know 
French,  and  German,  and  mathematics,  and  I  don't  know 
what  else.  But  Mrs.  Leslie  says  that  I  shall  only  be  required 
to  read  aloud  and  answer  letters.  Oh,  I  am  very  lucky,  if 
you  would  only  believe  it,  Griffith!" 

"  Lucky!"  he  snarled.  "  You  who  are  a  lady,  having  to 
read  aloud  and  answer  letters!" 

She  let  her  hand  fall  on  his  shoulder  again,  and  said,  sooth- 
ingly: 

"  I  might  have  had  to  do  worse  and  harder  work,  Griffith. 
I  might  have  had  to  teach  a  lot  of  children  things  I  didn't 
know  myself,"  she  laughed.  "  That  would  have  been  very 
bad.  But  I  am  used  to  reading  aloud.  You  remember  how 
I  used  to  read  to — to  " — her  voice  broke — "  my  father;  and  I 
can  carry  on  a  correspondence/' 

He  shook  his  head  and  growled. 

"  If  you'll  only  say  the  word,  you  could  stop  on  here  at  the 
cottage — " 

.  "  And  be  a  burden  to  you,"  finished  Lyra.  "  No,  no,  Grif- 
fith; I  could  not  do  that.  But  I  am  glad  you  are  going  to 
stay." 

"  And  you  promise,  if  anything  happens — if  you  don't  like 
thid — place  " — he  stumbled  over  the  word  as  if  it  were  a  nau- 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  157 

seous  draught — "  that  you'll  come  back — any  time,  without 
notice?  I  shall  be  here,  glad  and  joyful  to  welcome  you." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  said.  "  But  isn't  it  time  we  started,  Grif- 
fith? Wait  a  moment  for  me." 

She  went  into  the  house  and  passed  through  the  untidy 
rooms,  in  which  the  furniture  was  already  marked  with  the 
odious  labels,  "  Lot "  so-and-so,  and  up  to  her  father's  room. 

She  knelt  beside  the  bed  for  a  few  moments,  then  went  out 
again,  the  man  in  possession  staring  at  her  hi  a  wooden,  un- 
sympathetic fashion. 

Griffith  stood  by  the  gate,  with  the  portmanteau  on  his 
shoulder,  and,  almost  in  silence,  they  walked  along  the  river- 
side to  the  station. 

There  a  surprise  awaited  Lyra,  for  on  the  platform  was 
Mary,  who  had  been  dismissed  with  a  month's  wages  in  lieu  of 
notice. 

The  tears  were  in  her  eyes  as  Lyra  approached,  and  the 
honest,  tender-hearted  girl  threw  her  arms  round  Lyra's  neck 
and  gulped  out  her  farewell. 

"If  I  could  only  go  with  you,  Miss  Lyra,  dear!"  she 
sobbed.  "  You  were  always  so  kind  and  good  to  me!" 

Griffith  would  have  shouldered  her  away  jealously,  but  Lyra 
retained  the  girl's  hand  until  the  train  was  on  the  point  of 
starting. 

However,  Griffith  had  the  last  word. 

"Remember,  Miss  Lyra,"  he  said,  hoarsely,  "there's  a 
home  for  you  at  the  mill  cottage  whenever  you  want  it.  And 
— and  you'll  write  to  me?" 

Lyra's  eyes  were  blinded  with  tears — the  first  she  had  shed 
since  her  father's  death — as  the  train  puffed  out  of  Barnstaple 
Station,  and  she  cried  gently  and  silently  in  her  corner  for  a 
greater  part  of  the  journey.  The  West  of  England  Express  is 
a  good  train,  and  a  little  time  after  five  ic  steamed  into  Water- 
loo. 

Lyra  got  out,  and  was  making  her  way  through  the  crowd, 
when  a  footman  in  rich  but  subdued  livery  approached  her  and 
touched  his  hat. 

"  Miss  Chester?"  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  said  Lyra;  "  I  am  Miss  Chester." 

"  The  carriage  is  waiting  if  you  will  follow  me,  miss,  please. 
I  will  see  to  your  luggage." 

"  There  is  no  luggage  but  this,"  said  Lyra,  indicating  the 
portmanteau,  at  which  he  tried  not  to  look  surprised. 

She  followed  him  to  a  landau  drawn  by  a  pair  of  magnificent 


158  ONCE    IK   A    LIFE. 

horses,  and  the  footman  opened  the  door  for  her  and  uhut  hei 
in  with  grave  respect. 

The  carriage  made  its  way  over  Waterloo  Bridge  and 
through  the  crowded  Strand  to  the  West  End,  and  stopped  at 
one  of  the  houses  in  Garden  Square.  Lyra,  like  most  persons, 
had  read  a  great  deal  about  London,  but  never  hi  her  dreams 
had  she  been  able  to  imagine  anything  like  the  reality.  The 
endless  rows  of  houses,  the  handsome,  richly  dressed  shops, 
the  interminable  line  of  vehicles,  the  throngs  of  human  beings 
of  all  ranks  of  life  crowding  the  pavements  amazed  and  be- 
wildered her. 

Suddenly,  to  find  herself  hi  a  quiet  square,  and  in  the  large 
and  richly  appointed  hall  of  this  huge  palace,  was  like  an  un- 
expected shock,  the  falling  over  a  cataract  into  the  still  depth 
beneath. 

The  footman  ushered  her  upstairs  into  at  what  she  at  first 
thought  must  be  the  drawing-room,  so  richly  was  it  decorated 
and  furnished,  but  which,  as  she  learned  afterward,  was  only 
a  boudoir. 

She  sunk  with  a  feeling  of  strangeness  and  solitude  into  one 
of  the  softly  padded  seats  and  waited — an  interminable  tune, 
as  it  seemed  to  her;  then  the  door  opened,  and  a  lady  entered 
the  room. 

She  was  a  middle-aged  lady  with  a  very  pleasant  counte- 
nance, which  wore  an  apologetic  smile  as  she  came  forward 
with  extended  hand. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Chester  I"  she  said.  "  I  am  sorry  to  have  kept 
you  waiting." 

After  much  consideration  and  painf  ul  self -questioning,  Lyra 
had  decided  to  retain  her  maiden  name. 

Lyra  rose  and  murmured  something  inaudibly,  and  the  lady 
scanned  her  face  with  gentle  and  kindly  interest. 

"  Of  course  you  know  who  I  am?"  she  said.  "  I  am  the 
Mrs.  Leslie  with  whom  you  have  been  corresponding." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lyra. 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  a  faint  look  of  satisfaction  shone 
in  Mrs.  Leslie's  eyes,  and  she  drew  a  little  breatli  of  relief. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have  had  a  long  and  wearisome  journey," 
she  said.  "  Will  you  go  to  your  room  and  take  off  your 
things?  It  is  only  on  the  first  floor.  Come,  I'll  show  it  to 
you,  and  then  we  will  have  some  tea." 

She  led  Lyra  to  what  was  really  one  of  the  small  rooms  in 
the  large  house,  but  one  that  looked  to  her,  used  to  the  tiny 
eottage,  a  spacious  apartment  exquisitely  furnished. 


ONCE    IK    A    LIFE.  159 

•**  Ring  the  bell  for  anything  you  want.  My  maid  mil  wait 
upon  you.  You  are  sure  you  can  find  your  way  down?" 

Lyra  took  off  her  hat  and  jacket  and  enjoyed  a  good  wash, 
then  went  down  to  the  boudoir.  The  rose-tinted  blinds  were 
drawn  to  exclude  the  fierce  rays  of  the  evening  sun,  and  a 
dainty  tea-service  was  on  one  of  the  marquetry  tables,  with 
Mrs.  Leslie  reclining  in  an  easy-chair  before  it. 

"  How  quick  you  have  been!"  she  said,  giving  Lyra  one  of 
those  swift  glances  of  approval  of  which  only  women  are  capa- 
ble. 

"Have  I  been  so  quick?"  said  Lyra,  ingenuously.  "I 
thought  I  had  been  a  long  while." 

Mrs.  Leslie  laughed. 

"  Why,  my  dear  Miss  Chester,  most  girls  take  at  least  half 
an  hour  to  get  their  hats  and  cloaks  off,  and  you  have  not  been 
ten  minutes.  It  is  easy  to  see  that  you  have  lived  in  the 
country." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lyra,  "  I  have  lived  in  the  country  all  my 
life.  I  have  never  seen  London  until  to-day." 

Mrs.  Leslie  smiled  her  surprise. 

"  Really?  But  you  must  not  think  you  have  seen  it  even 
now,"  she  said;  "  for  you  have  not  seen  the  best  of  it;  nearly 
the  worst,  indeed.  Do  you  think  you  shall  like  it?  But  don't 
be  alarmed.  I  may  as  well  tell  you  before  you  answer  the 
question  that  we  do  not  live  in  London  for  very  long,  and  that 
we  are  just  on  the  point  of  leaving  it.  We  go  to  Castle  Towers 
to-morrow." 

"  To  Castle  Towers?"  said  Lyra,  vaguely. 

Mrs.  Leslie  nodded,  then  paused  in  the  act  of  filling  Lyra's 
cup. 

"  How  stupid  of  me!"  she  said.  "  I  haven't  yet  explained 
the  real  facts  of  the  case.  I  suppose  you  think  that  I  am — 
well,  your  employer?" 

Lyra  colored  faintly. 

"  I— yes,  I  thought  so,"  she  said.  "  You  are  Mrs.  Leslie?'' 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  that  lady;  "  but  I  am  only  a  servant  like 
yourself,  if  you  don't  mind  the  word.  I  don't." 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Lyra,  but  rather  wonderingly. 

Mrs.  Leslie  laughed  approvingly. 

"  It  is  an  honorable  term  enough,"  she  said.  "  We  are  all 
servants  of  some  one.  Why,  even  the  Prince  of  Wales  is  not 
fcoo  proud  to  wear  as  his  motto  '  Ich  Dien  ' — '  I  serve.' 3 

Lyra  smiled. 

"  I  am  not  proud,"  she  said. 


160  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

Mrs.  Leslie  glanced  at  the  pale,  beautiful  face  rather  doubt- 
fully. 

I  am  glad  of  that.  But  I  think  you  are.  You  have 
proud  eyebrows.  We  are  all  proud,  really;  only  we  deny  it 
most  eagerly.  But  you  are  wondering  who  your — shall  I  say 
employer— is.  She  is  a  lady  of  much  greater  importance  than 
I  am.  Have  you  ever  heard  of  Lady  Hainault?" 

Lyra  shok  her  head. 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  But  that  goes  for  nothing.  I  have 
heard  of  no  one.  All  my  life  I  have  lived  hi  a  country  place 
far  away  from  anywhere,  and  I  know,  have  heard  of  no  one." 
Mrs.  Leslie  looked  at  her  thoughtfully. 

"  I  was  going  to  say  f  poor  child!'  but  I  will  alter  it  to 
'  fortunate?  "  she  said,  with  a  smile  and  a  sigh.  "  I  envy 
you  your  quiet  life.  I  am  sure  it  must  have  been  a  happy — " 
she  paused,  as  Lyra  winced.  "  Oh,  I  beg  pardon,  my  dear! 
I  did  not  know — I  forgot;"  and  she  glanced  at  the  black 
dress. 

Lyra  fought  with  her  tears  and  mastered  them. 

"  I  have  been  very  happy  till  lately/'  she  said,  simply, 
"  until  I— I  lost  my  father." 

"  Poor  girl!"  murmured  Mrs.  Leslie.  "I  understand. 
Forgive  me,  I  know  what  that  means.  I  am  not  too  old  to 
remember  my  own  loss.  I,  too,  was  left  alone  hi  the  world." 
She  paused.  "  But  I  have  suffered  more  even  than  you,  my 
dear;  for  I  lost  a  dearly  loved  husband." 

Lyra's  face  went  white  for  a  moment.  Fortunately,  Mrs. 
Leslie's  eyes  were  cast  down,  and  she  did  not  notice  the  spasm 
of  terror  that  passed  across  the  beautiful  face. 

"  But  about  our  '  mistress;'  "  and  she  laughed.  "  The 
lady  to  whom  you  have  engaged  yourself  is  Lady  Hainault,  the 
late  Lord  Hainault' s  daughter  and  heiress.  I  am  an  old  friend 
of  hers,  as  well  as  her  servant,  and  until  now  have  been  her 
companion  and  amanuensis — that  is,  reading  and  writing  ma- 
chine. How  fond  we  all  are  of  long  words,  especially  if  we 
think  they  conceal  something  derogatory  to  our  dignity;  but 
my  eyes  have  been  rather  weak  of  late — or  I  fancy  they  have, 
which  is  quite  the  same  thing — and  Lady  Hainault,  instead  of 
getting  rid  of  me,  and  exchanging  me  for  a  more  serviceable 
person,  chooses  to  consider  me  indispensable,  and  engages 
some  one  to  help  me.  There  it  is  in  a  nut-shell.  Your  duties 
will  consist  in  reading  aloud  whenever  you  are  required — and 
you  will  be  required  to  do  so  very  often,  and  to  read  most 
abominably  dry  stuff,  too,  my  poor  child! — and  you  will  have 
to  write  Lady  Hainault' s  business  letters," 


ONCE    IN   A    LIFE.  161 

"  Business  letters?"  said  Lyra,  with  faint  surprise. 

Going  by  her  knowledge  of  titled  ladies — knowledge  derived 
from  three- volume  novels — she  thought  they  did  no  business 
whatever. 

Mrs.  Leslie  laughed. 

"  Oh,  yes.  Lady  Hainault  does  an  immense  amount  of 
business,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  mean  that  she  keeps  a  bonnet 
shop  and  millinery  establishment,  like  some  of  the  ladies  of 
the  nobility." 

"  Do  they — do  they  keep  a  shop?"  said  Lyra,  with  surprise. 

"  Oh,  dear,  yes!"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  coolly;  "  a  number  of 
them;  and  very  good  businesses  they  have."  She  mentioned 
some  titled  dames.  "  Poor  things!  they  have  lost  their  fort- 
unes, what  with  bad  speculations,  defaulting  trustees,  and  the 
drop  in  the  value  of  land,  and  they  are  obliged  to  do  some- 
thing. Dig  they  can  not,  to  beg  they  are  ashamed,  and  so 
they  take  to  bonnet-building.  But  Lady  Hainault  hasn't  come 
to  that  yet.  All  her  business  is  of  a  philanthropic  kind.  She 
is  a  great  social  reformer — wants  to  make  the  working-man 
give  up  drinking  beer  and  beating  his  wife,  and  tries  to  per- 
suade the  wife  to  keep  the  home  cleaner,  learn  cooking,  and 
wash  the  children." 

"  And  does  she  succeed?"  asked  Lyra,  greatly  interested. 

Mrs.  Leslie  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Well,  partly.  At  Castle  Towers  the  people  are  supernat- 
urally  good.  But  then  they  all  pay  less  than  their  proper 
rent,  and  are  mostly  coddled  like  children  in  arms.  Here,  in 
London" — Mrs.  Leslie  laughed — "well,  that's  a  different 
matter." 

"  And  is  Lord  Hainault  as  philanthropic?"  asked  Lyra, 
after  a  pause. 

"  Lord  Hainault  is  dead." 

"  She  is  a  widow,  then?"  said  Lyra. 

Mrs.  Leslie  stared  at  her,  then  laughed  rather  ruefully. 

"  Oh,  I  see;  you  meant  her  husband.  I'm  sorry  to  say 
Lady  Hainault  isn't  married.  I  wish  she  were.  She  would 
have  plenty  to  do  in  reforming  her  husband,  and  it  wouldn't 
be  so  disappointing,  perhaps,"  she  added,  naively.  "  But  you 
must  not  jump  to  the  conclusion,  from  what  I  have  said,  that 
Lady  Hainault  is — well,  a  foolish  and  credulous  person.  She 
is  really  very  bright  and  clever,  and  very  lovable.  The  only 
fault  with  her  is,,  as  I  have  told  " — she  stopped — "  told  a 
friend  of  hers,  that  she  is  too  good." 

Lyra  smiled. 

"I  did  not  think  any  one  could  be  too  good,"  she  said. 
6 


163  ONCE    HST    A    LIFE. 

"  No.  Wait  until  you  know  Lady  Hainault,  my  dear.  Ton 
will  see  her  to-morrow — that  is,  if  you  are  not  too  tired  to 
travel." 

"  To-morrow — not  to-night?  Oh,  I  shall  not  be  too  tired. 
I  am  very  strong." 

Mrs.  Leslie  looked  at  her. 

"  You  do  not  look  too  strong,  my  dear,"  she  said,  gently. 
"  But  we  will  try  and  plant  some  roses  in  those  lily  cheeks  of 
yours  when  we  go  into  the  country.  Yes,  we  will  go  to-mor- 
row. Did  you  think  Lady  Hainault  was  here?  How  stupid 
of  me  not  to  tell  you!  She  is  at  Castle  Towers.  She  only 
comes  up  occasionally,  though  this,  the  town  house,  is  kept 
going  till  quite  the  end  of  the  season." 

Lyra  looKed  round. 

"  Lady  Hainault  must  be  very  rich,"  she  said,  more  to  her- 
self than  to  Mrs.  Leslie. 

"  She  is,"  assented  that  lady.  "  More's  the  pity.  And 
now,  my  dear,  you  shall  go  and  lie  down  till  dinner-time.  We 
will  dine  here  instead  of  in  the  great  room  down-stairs,  and  to- 
morrow we  will  go  to  Castle  Towers.  That  is,  if  you  are  well 
enough." 

That  night  Lyra  lay  awake  till  the  great  London  clocks 
boomed  the  small  hours,  wondering  if  she  were  herself,  and  if 
the  great  house  and  the  new  life  she  had  entered  upon  were 
not  a  dream  instead  of  a  reality. 

After  breakfast — a  luxurious  breakfast,  served  in  the  bou- 
doir— the  carriage  came  round,  and  the  two  ladies  started. 

The  footman  engaged  a  first-class  compartment  for  them, 
purchased  a  bundle  of  magazines,  pulled  down  the  blinds,  and 
carefully  arranged  the  small  bags  and  wraps,  and  touched  his 
hat  hi  response  to  Mrs.  Leslie's  "  Thank  you,  James."  The 
guard  came  up  and  touched  his  cap,  and  in  deferential,  re- 
spectful tones  asked  if  they  were  comfortable  and  had  all  they 
wanted.  It  was  difficult  for  Lyra  to  realize  that  only  yester- 
day she  had  come  up  to  the  same  station  in  a  third-class  car- 
riage, seated  between  a  farmer  who  eat  sandwiches  noisily  and 
a  girl  who  sucked  oranges. 

Mrs.  Leslie,  in  a  hundred  little  ways,  showed  the  kindness 
of  her  disposition,  and  insisted  upon  Lyra  lying  down  for  the 
greater  part  of  the  journey. 

"  You  look  tired,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  and  no  wonderl 
Now,  just  do  as  I  tell  you;  and  you  must  try  and  drink  a  little 
of  this  wine.  You  don't  like  it?  I  know;  most  girls  don't. 
But  you  must  try  it,  all  the  same — take  it  as  medicine.  Why, 
if  you  arrived  at  Castle  Towers  looking  jagged  and  worn  out, 


ST    A    LIFE.  165 

Lady  Hainault  would  never  forgive  me!  You  hare  no  idea 
how  kind  she  is." 

(l  She  can  not  be  kinder  than  you/'  said  Lyra,  with  moist 
eyes;  and  as  she  lay  back  and  closed  them,  she  was  conscious 
of  a  guilty  pang  of  self-reproach. 

What  would  this  warm-hearted  woman  say  or  think  if  she 
knew  the  truth — knew  that  the  girl  whom  she  was  treating  as 
a  child  was  deceiving  her — was  not  "  Miss  Chester,"  but  a 
married  woman? 

When  Lyra  and  Mrs.  Leslie  reached  the  station,  a  carriage 
and  pair  as  handsome  as  those  which  had  awaited  them  at 
Waterloo  stood  at  the  station;  a  footman  was  in  attendance, 
and  treated  them  with  the  profound  respect  which  his  fellow 
in  London  had  accorded  them;  and  they  drove  through  the 
country  lanes  to  Castle  Towers. 

Lyra  had  never  seen  a  nobleman's  mansion  before,  and  she 
gazed  with  frank  amazement  and  admiration  at  the  great 
house,  with  its  wide-stretching  terrace  and  flower-spangled 
lawns. 

"  How  beautiful  it  is!"  she  said,  almost  unconsciously. 

Mrs.  Leslie  smiled. 

"  Isn't  it?  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  for  I  am  almost 
as  fond  and  proud  of  it  as  if  it  were  my  own.  Whereas,  Lady 
Hainault  doesn't  value  it  at  a  pin's  point;  in  fact,  she  thinks, 
I  believe,  that  it  is  almost  wicked  to  own  it  while  there  are  so 
many  poor  people  living  in  hovels.  This  is  the  avenue- 
planted  by  Eichard,  Earl  of  Hainault,  in  1443.  This  property 
was  not  entailed,  and  Lord  Hainault,  the  late  earl,  left  it  to 
his  daughter.  But  if  you  think  the  exterior  beautiful,  I  don't 
know  what  you  will  say  of  the  interior.  We  " — she  laughed — • 
"  you  see,  I  talk  as  if  I  were  part  owner — we  have  some  of  the 
finest  and  oldest  oak  carving  in  England." 

The  carriage  stopped  at  the  grand  entrance;  a  footman 
helped  them  to  alight,  and  they  entered  the  hall.  A  small 
and  girlish  figure  came  out  of  one  of  the  rooms,  and  a  soft, 
low,  but  grave  voice  exclaimed,  as  the  owner  kissed  Mrs. 
Leslie: 

"  You  have  got  back,  then,  dear?"  Then  she  turned  to 
Lyra,  who  stood,  rather  pale  and  timid,  a  little  apart.  "  How 
do  you  do^iiss  Chester?  I  hope  you  are  not  tired;"  and  she 
held  out  her  hand. 

"  Of  course  she  is  tired,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  with  a  kindly 
smile.  "  She  has  spent  the  last  two  days  in  the  horrid  trams, 
my  dear  Theodosia." 


164  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

At  the  sound  of  the  name  Lyra  started,  and  the  faint  flush 
which  had  risen  to  her  face  faded  away,  and  left  it  pale  again. 

Theodosia!  The  name  brought  back  the  remembrance  of 
Lord  Dane  with  the  suddenness  and  keenness  of  a  knife 
thrust. 

Lady  Theodosia  looked  at  her  with  grave  but  gentle  alarm. 

"  I  can  see  that  you  are  tired,"  she  said,  in  her  low,  sweet 
voice. 

Lyra  tried  to  s^eak,  but  no  word  would  come.  The  great 
hall,  the  two  gracious  ladies,  had  faded  from  her  sight;  she 
saw  only  the  stream  up  the  valley,  and  the  tall,  stalwart  figure 
of  Lord  Dane. 

Lady  Theodosia  signaled  to  a  maid  standing  under  the  gal- 
lery. 

"  Take  Miss  Chester  to  her  room,"  she  said.  Then  as  Lyra, 
with  bent  head  and  still  dazed  eyes,  followed  the  maid,  Lady 
Theodosia  said: 

"  What  a  lovely  girl,  Fanny!  but  how  pale  and  fragile  she 
looks." 

"  Yes,  poor  child!"  said  Mrs.  Leslie.  "  Her  beauty  startled 
me  quite  as  much  as  it  has  startled  you.  I  don't  think  I  ever 
saw  a  lovelier  face;  and  she  is  grace  itself,  isn't  she?  I  think 
I  have  secured  a  treasure  for  you.  But  we  must  be  very  care- 
ful of  her.  The  poor  child  has  just  lost  her  father — only  a 
week  ago.  Think  of  it!" 

"  Oh,  dear!"  murmured  Lady  Theodosia,  compassionately. 

"  And  I  fancy  there  was  trouble — money  trouble — before 
that,  though  she  has  said  nothing.  Indeed,  she  is  very  re- 
served and  reticent,  like  all  who  have  suffered.  I  don't  think, 
from  what  I  can  glean,  that  she  has  a  friend  in  the  world." 

"  She  will  have  two  now/'  said  Lady  Theodosia,  simply. 

"  That's  like  you,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  kissing  her.  "  I 
think  you  will  get  very  fond  of  her.  I  have  taken  to  her 
tremendously  already,  though  there  is  nothing  brilliant  about 
her,  thank  Heaven!  It  is  wonderful  how  innocent  of  the 
world  she  is.  She  had  never  seen  London  till  yesterday.  In 
fact,  she  is  just  an  unsophisticated,  unaffected  child,  with  the 
sorrowful  heart  of  a  woman." 

"  A  woman  with  a  history?"  said  Lady  Theodosia. 

"  I — I  don't  know.  No,  I  don't  think  so.  How  should 
she  have  '  a  history  '?  She  is  too  young.  No,  %think  her 
only  trouble  is  the  death  of  her  father  and  her  terrible  loneli- 


ness. 
tt 


At  any  rate,  she  shall  be  lonely  no  longer,"  said  Lady 
Theodosia,  very  quietly. 


O2ICE  rsr  A  LIFE.  165 

The  footman  brought  the  tea  into  the  drawing-room  where 
they  were  standing.  Lady  Theodosia  filled  a  cup  and  left  the 
room  with  it,  saying  over  her  shoulder: 

"  You  can  pour  out  your  own,  dear." 

The  maid  had  offered  to  help  Lyra  remove  her  things  and 
unpack  her  portmanteau,  but  Lyra  had  gently  declined,  and, 
left  alone,  had  gone  to  the  window  and  looked  out  dreamily, 
thinking  of  the  name  she  had  heard — Theodosia. 

A  knock  came  to  the  door  and  she  opened  it,  to  find  Lady 
Theodosia  standing  there  with  the  cup  of  tea  in  her  hand. 

"  May  I  come  in?"  she  said,  as  if  she  were  the  newly  en- 
gaged companion,  and  Lyra  the  mistress. 

Lyra  opened  the  door  wide,  and  Lady  Theodosia  entered. 

"  I  have  brought  you  a  cup  of  tea/'  she  said,  lifting  her 
clear  brown  eyes  almost  timidly  to  Lyra's  large,  sad  orbs. 
"  Will  you  let  me  stay  while  you  drink  it?  I  know  what  it  is 
to  arrive  in  a  strange  house  and  feel  lonely.  Let  me  help  you 
take  your  hat  off.  Why,  how  tall  you  are!" 

Lyra  looked  at  her,  and  as  she  looked  the  tears  welled  into 
her  eyes  and  fell  on  Lady  Theodosia' s  sleeve. 

Lady  Theodosia  took  no  notice,  even  when  a  sob  escaped 
Lyra's  lips. 

"  Drink  your  tea.  I  wonder  why  a  hat  always  makes  one's 
head  ache?  There,  now." 

She  smoothed  Lyra's  beautiful  hair  from  her  forehead,  and 

fently  forced  her  into  a  chair.  "  Sit  down  and  finish  the  cup. 
will  fetch  you  another,  if  you  like." 

Lyra  tried  to  drink  the  tea. 

"Oh!  no,  no!"  she  said;  then  she  broke  down  and  hid  her 
face  in  her  hands.  The  outburst  lasted  only  for  a  moment, 
and  relieved  her  overstrained  nerves;  and  presently  she  looked 
up  at  Lady  Theodosia  with  a  world  of  self-reproach. 

"  I — I  am  ashamed,"  she  faltered. 

"  Ashamed  of  being  tired?"  said  Lady  Theodosia,  with  a 
smile.  "  Then  we  should,  all  of  us,  be  very  often  ashamed  of 
ourselves.  I  know  exactly  how  you  feel,  and  I  ventured  to 
come  up  to  you  because  I  knew.  But  I  will  go  now,  and  you 
must  rest.  You  need  not  come  down  to  dinner  unless  you 
like." 

"  Thank  you,  my  lady,"  said  Lyra. 

Lady  Theo^osia  made  a  little  grimace. 

"Oh!  please  no!"  she  said.  "  Call  me  Lady  Theodosia. 
What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked,  for  Lyra's  face  had  paled 
again  suddenly.  *'  I  want  you  to  understand  at  once— it  ii 
always  best,  is  it  not? — that  I  desire  that  we  should  be  friends, 

,  -     ;       ,-rt. 


166  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

You  hare  come  to  help  Mrs.  Leslie,  who  is  my  dearest  friend. 
Will  you  tell  me  your  name — I  mean,  your  Christian  name?" 

"  Lyra/'  said  Lyra,  in  a  low  voice.  Her  heart  was  throb- 
bing under  this  unexpected  kindness. 

"Lyra,"  repeated  Theodosia;  "  it  is  a  musical  name  in  two 
senses  of  the  word.  I  wish  mine  were  as  pretty;  not  that  one 
should  be  discontented,"  she  added,  with  a  touch  of  her  nat- 
ural gravity.  "  Well,  you  shall  stay  upstairs  to  dinner,  but 
you  must  come  down  afterward,  for  I  think  it  will  be  better  for 
you  than  remaining  here  all  alone.  You  would  feel  solitary 
and  neglected." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  was  all  Lyra  could  say. 

Lady  Theodosia  smiled  up  at  her  as  she  rose.  **  You  aro 
very  tall,"  she  said  again,  and  added,  mentally,  "  very  grace- 
ful. You  must  make  haste  and  get  strong  again.  You  havo 
been  ill,  have  you  not?" 

"  N-o,"  said  Lyra.     "  Yes,  I  think  so." 

Lady  Theodosia  understood. 

"  We  must  teach  you  to  forget  your  trouble,"  she  said,  in 
a  low  voice.  "  Good-bye.  I  will  send  for  you  after  dinner. 
We  shall  be  quite  alone.  If  there  is  anything  you  want,  ring 
that  bell  by  the  book-case;  it  communicates  with  my  maid's 
room,  and  she  will  answer  it." 

Mrs.  Leslie  was  still  in  the  drawing-room  when  Lady  Theo- 
dosia returned. 

"  Well?"  she  said. 

Lady  Theodosia  was  silent  a  moment. 

"  I  am  not  surprised  at  your  '  taking  to  her/  as  you  call 
it,"  she  said,  thoughtfully.  "  She  has  fascinated  me.  It  is 
absurd,  of  course,"  she  added,  quickly.  "  One  should  guard 
against  such  sudden  prepossessions  and  prejudices,  I  know; 
but — well,  one  can  not  always  help  them.  I  suppose  it  is  her 
beauty  and  that  mournful  look  hi  her  eyes.  What  color  are 
they?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  with  a  laugh.  "  If  you 
were  a  man,  I  should  say  you  had  fallen  in  love  with  Lyra 
Chester,  Theo." 

Lady  Theodosia  echoed  the  laugh;  then  she  said,  gravely: 

"  He  would  be  a  very  insensible  man  who  would  not  fall  in 
love  with  her." 

Lyra  changed  her  black  serge  traveling-dress  for  one  of  soft 
cashmere,  which  she  had  provided  for  evening  wear;  and 
shortly  after  she  had  done  so,  the  maid  appeared  with  a  dainty 
dinner  on  an  antique  silver  salver,  which  a  footman  had  car- 
ried to  the  door  lor  her.  There  was  a  glass  of  burgundy 


OtfCE    IN    JL    LIFE.  167 

among  the  other  things,  and  the  maid  said,  as  she  put  it  be- 
side the  plate: 

11  Her  ladyship  says  you  are  to  be  sure  and  drink  the  wine. 
You  are  to  take  it  as  medicine,  miss.  You  will  ring  for  any- 
thing else  you  want,  miss." 

She  put  Lyra's  things  in  the  wardrobe,  and  "  tidied  up  " 
the  room  with  deft  noiselessness  before  leaving,  and  Lyra  felt 
that  the  kindly  spirit  of  the  mistress  had  imparted  itself  to  the 
servants. 

She  tried  to  eat  the  dinner  and  drink  half  the  glass  of  wine, 
then  went  to  the  window  and  looked  at  the  sunset,  which  was 
throwing  red  gleams  over  the  ancient  park  and  broad  meadows, 
her  heart  almost  aching  with  its  sense  of  the  kindness  of  these 
new  friends  Providence  had  raised  up  for  her. 

Then  she  made  a  tour  of  the  room,  viewing  the  luxurious 
furniture  and  appointments  with  a  kind  of  wonder.  Like  most 
of  the  guest-chambers  in  Castle  Towers,  this  they  had  given 
her  was  furnished  half  as  a  bedroom  and  half  as  a  sitting-room. 
There  was  a  dainty  little  writing-table,  a  well-stocked  book- 
case of  rosewood,  a  great  bowl  of  flowers,  easy-chairs,  and  a 
couch;  a  combination  of  comfort  and  luxury  common  enough 
in  the  houses  of  the  rich,  but  strange  and  wonderful  in  Lyra's 
eyes. 

While  she  was  looking  over  the  titles  of  the  books,  the  maid 
knocked. 

"  Her  ladyship  says  that  if  you  are  quite  rested,  will  you 
come  down?  I  am  to  show  you  the  way,  miss." 

"  I  am  quite  ready,"  said  Lyra;  and  she  followed  the  girl 
down  the  great  stairs  and  across  the  hall  into  the  drawing-room. 

Mrs.  Leslie  was  seated  by  the  window,  and  Lady  Theodosia, 
who  was  at  the  piano,  playing  softly,  motioned  Lyra  to  a  seat 
near  her. 

"  Are  you  fond  of  music?"  she  asked,  continuing  to  play. f 
"  But  I  am  sure  you  are.     Do  you  sing?"  v 

Lyra  hesitated,  and  Lady  Theodosia  went  on,  with  a  laugh: 

' '"Everybody  says  '  No  '  to  that,  as  a  matter  of  course." 

"  I  have  had  no  lessons;  I'm  afraid  I  don't  sing,"  said 
Lyra.  "  But  I  will  try,  if  you  wish. " 

"  Not  to-night,  certainly,"  she  said,  with  a  smile.  You 
are  too  tired.  I  will  sing  to  you  instead." 

"  Will  yo*have  the  lights?"  asked  Mrs.  Leslie. 

Instinctively,  Lyra  rose  to  ring  the  bell,  but  Lady  Theo- 
dosia stretched  out  her  hand  and  kept  her  hi  her  seat. 

"  No,  dear.  It  is  pleasant  in  the  gloaming,  and  I  know  the 
gong.  We  will  have  lights  when  the  tea  comes  in. " 


168  ONCE    IK    A    LITE. 

She  began  to  sing  "  The  Star  of  Bethlehem  "  in  a  sweet 
though  not  powerful  voice,  and  Lyra  leaned  back  with  half- 
closed  eyes,  and  listened  with  a  grateful  sense  of  rest  and 
peace. 

Lady  Theodosia  paused  after  the  first  part. 

"  You  like  it?"  she  said. 

"  Yes/'  said  Lyra. 

"  It  is  a  great  favorite  of  mine,  but  it  wants  a  man's  voice." 

"  It  wants  Dane's,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  with  a  half  laugh, 
and  so  quietly  that  Lyra  did  not  hear  her. 

Lady  Theodosia  blushed  slightly  and  frowned  a  little,  then 
went  on  with  the  song.  Suddenly  she  stopped  and  looked 
round. 

"  Who  is  that?"  she  asked. 

Mrs.  Leslie  looked  up  listeningly. 

"  Well,  I  thought  I  heard  a  man's  voice,"  she  said. 

As  she  spoke  the  door  opened  and  a  footman  announced: 

"  Lord  Arniitage!" 

Lyra,  looking  like  one  in  a  dream,  saw  a  tall  figure  in  even- 
ing-dress enter,  and  heard  a  voice — Iris  voice — say: 

"  Halloo,  Dosie!  I  thought  you  eschewed  the  ways  of  dark- 
ness. Where  are  you  and  which  are  you?" 

And  he  looked  round  the  dim  room,  with  a  laugh. 

Lady  Theodosia  rose  and  glided  toward  him. 

"  Is  that  you,  Dane?    Why  did  you  not  come  to  dinner?" 

"  Yes,  why  didn't  you?  We  had  lobster  cutlets,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Leslie. 

"  Eeally?"  he  said.     "  Perhaps  there  are  some  left." 

Was  she  asleep  and  dreaming?  It  was  his  voice,  and  yet — 
yet  there  was  a  difference.  The  words  were  light  enough,  but 
the  light-hearted  ring  in  the  tones  were  absent.  Oh,  surely 
she  must  be  dreaming!  As  she  gazed  at  him,  her  lips  apart, 
her  heart  seemed  breaking  with  its  wild  throbbing,  the  room 
spun  round  with  her. 

He  came  toward  her,  walking  by  Lady  Theodosia's  side,  and 
presently  he  saw  her. 

He  stopped  short. 

"  Why — who  is  this?"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice  of  faint  sur- 
prise. 

Lyra  rose  unsteadily  and  grasped  the  back  of  the  chair. 

"It  is  Miss  Chester,"  said  Lady  Theodosia,  in  her  even 
Toice.  "  Miss  Chester,  this  is  Lord  Dane  Armitage." 

Dane  started,  then  took  a  step  forward. 

"Merciful  Heaven!"  broke  from  his  lips;  then,  as  she 
staggered,  he  caught  her  in  his  arms. 


OKCE    IK    A    LIFE.  169 

Mrs.  Leslie  hurried  forward  at  his  wild  exclamation. 

"  Oh,  poor  child,  poor  child!  she  has  fainted,"  she  said. 
"  Give  her  to  me,  Dane.  Help  me  with  her  to  the  sofa  there." 

He  held  her  for  a  moment,  gazing  wildly  at  the  white, 
lovely  face  lying  against  his  breast,  then  raised  his  eyes  to  the 
other  women  with  a  fierce  refusal. 

"Leave  her  to  me!"  he  said,  hoarsely;  then  he  mastered 
himself,  and  carrying  her  to  the  sofa,  laid  her  down. 

There  was  not  light  enough  to  see  his  face,  or  it  would  have 
told  its  story — to  Mrs.  Leslie,  at  any  rate. 

"  Poor  girl!"  she  said.  "  Ring  for  the  lights,  Lord  Dane, 
please;  and  I  think  you  had  better  go  and  have  a  cigar  in  the 
library." 

He  did  as  he  was  told,  and  went  out  like  a  man  walking  in 
his  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XXIH. 

LYRA  came  to  in  a  very  little  while,  and  looked  up  at  the 
two  women  and  around  the  room  with  a  dazed  expression, 
which  gave  place  to  one  of  fear  as  she  remembered  Lord 
Dane's  presence. 

Neither  Lady  Theodosia  nor  Mrs.  Leslie  had  the  least  sus- 
picion of  the  cause  of  her  sudden  swoon,  and  both  were  full  of 
sympathy  for  her. 

"  Are  you  better?"  asked  Lady  Theodosia,  putting  her  arm 
round  Lyra  to  support  her. 

"  My  dear  child,  you  have  almost  frightened  us  out  of  our 
lives,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie.  "  Are  you  given  to  fainting  in  this 
way?" 

Lyra  shook  her  head. 

"  I  have  never  faulted  before  in  my  life  that  I  remember," 
she  said;  then  she  looked  round  the  room  and  sighed  deeply. 
Was  it  a  dream,  or  had  she  really  seen  and  heard  him? 

"  It  was  the  long  journey  and  the  excitement  of  novelty," 
said  Lady  Theodosia,  pityingly.  "  We  ought  to  have  sent  you 
to  bed  directly  you  came;  but  I  thought  it  would  be  better  for 
you,  less  lonely,  to  spend  the  first  evening  with  us." 

"  You  have  given  Lord  Dane  as  bad  a  fright  as  you  have 
given  us,"  remarked  Mrs.  Leslie,  with  a  smile.  "  I  never  saw 
him  so  startled;  but  men  are  always  such  babies  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  fainting  woman.  It  was  fortunate  that  he  happened 
to  be  standing  near  you,  or  you  would  have  fallen." 
v  Lyra  hung  her  head.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  em- 


170  ONCE    IN    A 

barked  upon  a  course  of  deceit  and  concealment  from  which 
there  was  no  escape. 

"  I  must  go,"  sne  said,  almost  to  herself;  "  yes,  I  must  go." 

"Tobsd?"  said  Lady  Theodosia.  "Of  course  you  shall. 
Do  you  think  you  are  able  to  walk  yet?" 

Lyra  rose,  trembling. 

'*  Oh,  yes,"  she  replied,  "  I  am  all  right  now." 

"  Give  me  your  arm,"  said  Lady  Theodosia,  in  her  quietly 
commanding  way.  "  I  shall  never  forgive  myself  for  letting 
you  overtask  yourself  BO  much." 

They  passed  out  into  the  hall,  and  there  stood  Lord  Dane. 
His  handsome  face  looked  grave  and  troubled,  and  his  hands 
were  plunged  in  his  pockets,  as  is  the  way  with  men  when  they 
are  anxious  and  disturbed.  He  took  them  out,  and  after  a 
momentary  hesitation,  approached  them. 

"  I — hope  you  are  better,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

Her  eyes  met  his  for  a  moment,  then  fell. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  almost  inaudibly. 

"  Miss  Chester  has  been  traveling  for  two  days  and  is  not 
strong,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie. 

"  I — I  am  sorry  to  have  given  so  much  trouble,"  murmured 
Lyra,  and  her  lips  quivered. 


Mon 
rs.  Leslie  following,  they  went  up  the 
stairs. 

"  I  will  get  some  sal  volatile,"  said  the  latter  lady.  "  I 
have  some  in  my  room;"  and  she  hurried  along  the  corridor. 
A  moment  afterward  she  called  out:  "  I  can  not  find  it.  Have 
you  any,  Dosie?" 

"  One  moment,"  said  Lady  Theodosia;  and  she  ran  to  her 
room,  and  left  Lyra  and  Dane  alone. 

He  stood  looking  at  her  downcast  face  in  silence  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  he  spoke. 

"  I  can  not  ask  you  now  one  of  the  questions  that  are 
troubling  me,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  hurried  voice.  "  I  can 
scarcely  believe  that  it  is  you  who  are  standing  here.  For 
God's  sake,  do  not  tremble  so;  it  is — it  is  as  if  you  were  afraid 
of  me." 

[ — am — not  afraid,"  she  said,  without  lifting  her  eyes. 

"  Heaven  knows  you  have  no  cause  to  be,"  he  responded, 

sadly.      '  They  are  coming.     I  will  be  here  to-morrow.     I 

must  see  you — have  some  talk  with  you.     Meet  me — will  you 

meet  me  " — his  voice  grew  imploring — "  in  the  rose  garden?" 

„ "  No,  nol"  she  said.     "  I  must  go — I  must  leave  here." 


ONCE    Itf    A    LIFE.  171 

"You  must  not!"  he  retorted,  almost  sternly.  "The 
door  at  the  back  of  the  hall  leads  to  the  rose  garden;  I  will  be 
there  at  eleven." 

"  I  can  not — I  can  not!"  she  said,  almost  inaudibly. 

The  two  ladies  came  down  the  corridor,  and  Mrs.  Leslie 
took  Lyra's  arm. 

"  I  will  take  charge  of  her.  But  I  think  she  is  quite  well 
now.  Are  you  not,  dearf" 

"  Quite,"  said  Lyra.  "  Good-night  "—she  looked  at  Lady 
Theodosia,  not  at  Lord  Dane — "  and — and  thank  you." 

Mrs.  Leslie  was  kindness  itself,  and  dismissing  the  maid, 
herself  helped  Lyra  to  undress. 

'  You  will  be  all  right  in  the  morning,  my  dear,"  she  said, 
"  and  we  shall  all  be  laughing  at  your  sudden  collapse." 

Lyra  scarcely  spoke  a  word — if  she  had,  it  would  have  been 
to  say,  "  I  must  go!" — and  Mrs.  Leslie  soon  left  her  and  went 
down-stairs. 

Lord  Dane  and  Theodosia  had  gone  into  the  library,  and  he 
was  smoking  vigorously  as  he  leaned  against  the  mantel-shelf, 
his  head  bent,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  carpet. 

"  Poor  Lord  Dane!"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  with  a  laugh. 
"  Well,  you  can't  say  that  we  often  make  a  scene  for  you.  I 
am  sorry  for  her.  Think  what  it  must  be  to  find  one's  self 
among  strangers — " 

Dane  bit  Ms  cigar.  Should  he  confess  at  once  that  he  was 
no  stranger,  that  he  and  Lyra  Chester  had  met  before?  He 
opened  his  lips,  then  hesitated.  After  all,  it  was  her  secret. 
He  had  no  right  to  speak. 

"  She  is  the  nicest  girl  I  ever  met,"  went  on  Mrs.  Leslie. 
"  As  I  told  Dosie,  I  think  we  have  got  a  treasure.  Poor  child! 
she  has  had  a  great  trouble  lately." 

Dane  looked  up. 

"  She  has  lost  her  father." 

Dane  turned  his  face  away.  Lost  her  father!  Poor  Lyra! 
His  heart  ached,  ached  with  love  and  pity. 

"  I  know  I  shall  grow  quite  fond  of  her,"  went  on  Mrs. 
Leslie. 

"  Don't  you  think  she  is  very  beautiful?"  said  Lady  Theo- 
dosia, in  her  grave,  thoughtful  way,  as  she  leaned  back  in  the 
rocking-chair. 

Dane  puffed  at  his  cigar.     He  felt  mean  and  deceitful. 

"  I — I  scarcely  saw  her,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Leslie  laughed. 

"  A  woman  never  looks  at  her  best  when  she  is  fainting, 
Whatever  the  novelists  may  sav<  Dosie;  wait  until  Miss  Chester 


172  ONCE    IN    A    LI1HZ. 

gets  some  color  in  her  cheeks,  and  a  brighter  light  in  her 
eyes/' 

"Oh!  I  think  her  very  heautiful  now,"  said  Theodosia, 
simply. 

Dane  flung  the  end  of  his  cigar  into  the  fire-place. 

"  Anyway,"  he  said,  "  she  has  fallen  among  friends.*' 

"  Yes,"  said  Theodosia;  "  I  am  sure  I  shall  like  her.  Are 
you  going?" 

He  nodded. 

"  Yes;  I  rode  over  with  a  message  from  the  guv'nor;  I'd 
almost  forgotten  it." 

"  And  little  wonder,"  laughed  Mrs.  Leslie. 

"  He  wants  you  both  to  come  and  dine  with  us  the  day  after 
to-morrow." 

"  Oh,  thanks;  we  shall  be  delighted,"  said  Lady  Theodosia. 
**  I  suppose  we  may  bring  Miss  Chester;  that  is,  if  she  is  well 
enough?" 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  he  said.  He  rang  the  bell — he  was  almost 
master  at  Castle  Towers — and  ordered  his  dog-cart,  shook 
hands  with  the  ladies,  and  strode  out. 

"  I  may  be  over  to-morrow,"  he  said,  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Lord  Dane  behaved  very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie.  "  But, 
then,  he  always  behaves  well." 

"  Does  he?"  said  Lady  Theodosia,  with  an  absent  smile. 
"  Yes,  I  suppose  it  was  rather  trying  for  him;  to  be  intro- 
duced to  a  strange  girl  one  moment,  and  have  to  catch  her  in 
his  arms  the  next.  What  was  it  he  said  as  he  caught  her;  did 
you  hear?" 

"No,  I  didn't,"  replied  Mrs.  Leslie.  "I  dare  say  he 
swore;  most  men  would  have  under  the  circumstance;"  and 
she  laughed. 

Lyra  lay  awake  a  greater  part  of  the  night.  Fate  had  been 
against  her,  and  thrown  her  and  Lord  Dane  together  again. 

There  was  only  one  thing  to  do:  to  go  away  as  quickly  and 
quietly  as  possible.  As  she  lay  tossing  from  side  to  side,  she 
reminded  herself  again  and  again,  a  hundred,  a  thousand 
times,  that  she  was  married;  that  even  if  Lord  Dane  had  not 
been  engaged  to  Lady  Theodosia,  she,  Lyra,  was  not  a  free 
woman.  She  was  married  to  a  man,  base  and  vile,  mean  and 
despicable,  but  still  irrevocably  married.  It  was  hard,  it  was 
cruel  of  Fate,  but  she  must  bow  to  the  inevitable. 

She  fell  asleep  at  last,  a  dream-haunted  sleep  from  which 
she  woke  pale  and  weary. 

And  as  she  woke  she  remembered  the  appointment  Lord 
Dane  had  made.  Should  she  keep  it?  She  decided  she  would 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  173 

not.  What  good  could  come  of  it?  A  gulf,  a  dark  golf 
yawned  between  her  and  him,  and  nothing  but  death  or  dis- 
honor could  bridge  it.  She  would  make  some  excuse  and  leave 
that  day.  But  where  should  she  go? 

"When  the  breakfast-bell  rang  the  maid  brought  in  a  daintily 
laid  tray,  and  soon  afterward  Mrs.  Leslie  entered  the  room. 

"  I  see  you  are  better  without  asking,"  she  said.  "  There 
is  nothing  like  a  good  night's  rest.  Now,  mind,  you  are  to 
keep  quite  quiet  all  day.  Lady  Theodosia  and  I  are  off  almost 
directly  to  a  meeting;  my  poor  child,  you  will  learn  all  about 
these  meetings  presently;"  and  she  laughed.  "  Lie  in  bed  if 
you  can,  but  if  you  can't,  just  wander  about  the  house  till  we 
come  back." 

Lyra  sighed. 

"  I — I  was  going  to  ask  Lady  Theodosia  to  let  me  go,"  she 
said. 

'•'  Let  you  go?    Go  where?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Lyra,  simply.  "  But  I  feel,  I  know, 
that  I—" 

"  Oh,  nonsense!"  broke  in  Mrs.  Leslie,  in  her  outspoken 
way.  "  You  mustn't  talk  of  going.  Do  you  think  because 
you  are  weak  and  ill  that  Lady  Theodosia,  or  I,  for  that  mat- 
ter, want  to  get  rid  of  you?  My  dear  child,  you  will  be  all 
right  in  a  few  hours.  There,  don't  talk  nonsense;  but  take 
care  of  yourself  till  we  come  back.  We  shall  be  in  to  lunch.  I 
should  get  out  into  the  garden  and  just  wander  or  sit  about  in 
the  shade;  it  is  a  lovely  garden." 

Lyra  sat  for  an  hour  with  her  head  bowed  on  her  hand,  try- 
ing to  decide  what  she  should  do.  If  Lady  Theodosia  had  not 
turned  out  to  be  the  "  Theodosia,"  if  Lord  Dane  had  not  ap- 
peared on  the  scene,  how  happy — well,  if  not  happy,  for  hap- 
piness seemed  to  have  fled  from  her  forever — how  contented 
and  at  peace  she  could  have  been! 

Still  undecided — for  the  question  "  Where  should  she  go?" 
could  not  be  answered — she  at  last  went  down-stairs. 

The  sun  was  shining  brightly  through  the  hall,  with  its 
family  portraits  and  great  porcelain  vases,  men  in  armor, 
oaken  chests,  and  subdued  velvet  hangings,  and  she  saw  the 
glass  door  leading  to  the  rose  garden.  It  was  open,  and  the 
scent  of  the  flowers  came  in,  accompanied  by  the  humming  of 
"  innumerable  bees  "  and  the  music  of  the  birds. 

She  went  into  the  drawing-room,  but  she  could  not  remain 
there.  She  seemed  to  still  see  him  as  he  came  across  the 
room,  hear  his  voice.  Yes,  oh,  yes!  she  must  go! 

She  was  making  her  way  back  to  her  room  to  pack  up  her 


174  .  ONCE    IN    A    LIFB. 

things,  when  she  heard  a  step — his  step— on  the  terrace,  and 
he  came  into  the  hall. 

He  was  dressed  almost  as  she  had  seen  him  first,  his  stalwart 
figure  looking  more  than  its  height  in  the  suit  of  Harris  tweed 
and  doeskin  gaiters. 

He  did  not  see  her  for  a  moment  where  she  stood,  almost 
hidden  behind  a  vase,  and  she  saw  him  look  round  with  an  ex- 
pression of  constrained  eagerness.  Then  he  caught  sight  of 
ner,  and  came  to  her,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand. 

"  Are  you  better?"  he  asked,  in  a  low,  anxious  voice. 

"  I  am  quite  well,  Lord  Dane,"  she  said,  very  slowly,  and 
as  steadily  as  she  could. 

She  was  resolved  that  there  should  be  no  more  weakness  on 
her  part.  Whatever  she  might  suffer,  she  would  show  no  sign 
of  it. 

"  I  am  glad — very  glad,"  he  said.  "  I  was  afraid  that  you 
would  be  Ul  this  morning.  You  still  look  pale  and — and  weak. 
Where  are  you  going?'7  for  she  had  moved  toward  the  stairs. 

"  To  my  room,"  she  said.  "  I — I  am  going  away,  Lord 
Dane.  Lady  Theodosia  and  Mrs.  Leslie  are  out." 

He  took  no  notice  of  this  piece  of  information. 

"  Wait,"  he  said,  gently  enough;  but  there  was  a  tone  of 
command,  the  man's  masterful  ring,  under  the  gentleness, 
which  stayed  her  steps.  "  Do  not  go  away  until  I  have  spoken 
to  you.  I  ask  it  earnestly,  humbly.  I  know  you  have  no 
reason^far  otherwise — to  listen  to  any  request  of  mine;  I 
know  how  you  must  regard  me;  but  I  ask — I  humbly  ask  you 
to  listen  to  me,  Ly — Miss  Chester." 

She  hesitated,  and  he  caught  at  his  advantage. 

"  Come  into  the  garden,"  he  said.  "  We  may  be  overheard 
here.  Come;  I  will  not  keep  you  many  minutes,  and  after 
our  talk,  if  you  still  want  to  go,  well — " 

He  sighed. 

He  opened  the  garden  door  for  her,  and  they  passed  out. 
He  glanced  at  the  brilliant  sun,  and  took  a  Japanese  sun-shade 
from  the  stand  to  shelter  her.  The  little  act  spoke  volumes. 

The  rose  garden,  now  in  its  glory,  was  the  loveliest  spot 
Lyra  had  ever  seen,  even  in  her  dreams.  She  stood  looking 
round  her  a  moment,  taking  in  the  beauty  of  the  flowers,  the 
sense  of  her  own  misery.  Dane  pointed  to  a  seat,  and  she 
sunk  into  it.  He  gave  her  the  sun-shade. 

"  The  sun  is  hot,"  she  said;  and  she  tried  to  thank  him. 

He  stood  beside  her  looking  down  at  her.  In  his  eyes,  in 
his  heart,  uhe  wao  the  loveliest,  the  one  woman  hi  all  the 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  174 

world;  and  yet  he  could  not  take  her  by  the  hand  and  draw 

her  to  his  heart  and  claim  her. 

"  Tell  me  how  you  come  to  be  here,"  he  said,  at  last. 

She  nerved  herself  to  answer  steadily,  almost  coldly: 

"  I  saw  an  advertisement  and  I  answered  it.     I  did  not 

&now."     She  paused.     "  It  was  Mrs.  Leslie  who  wrote  to  me 

and  whom  I  saw.     I  did  not  know  that  it  was  Lady  Theodosia 

to  whom  I  was  engaged." 

"  I  understand/'  he  said,  hi  a  low  voice.  "  But — but  why 
was  it  necessary?" 

Her  lips  quivered,  but  she  answered  bravely: 

"  My  father—" 

"  I  know,"  he  said.  "  They  told  me  last  night  I  had  not 
heard  of  it." 

"  It  was  not  likely  that  you  would,"  she  said,  simply. 
"  When  he  died,  I  was  all  alone  in  the  world,  and  poor.  There 
was  nothing  left." 

"  No  friends?"  he  said. 

"None,"  she  replied,  quietly,  "except  Griffith.  He  is 
staying  on  at  the  cottage;  he  will  live  there.  No,  there  was 
no  friend.  I  was  all  alone  and  had  to  work — *: 

She  stopped  suddenly  as  she  remembered  Geoffrey  Barle, 
stopped  and  shuddered  slightly;  and  yet  she  had  spoken  the 
truth,  for  the  vile  wretch  had  gone.  She  had  been  alone  in 
the  world. 

His  heart  ached  for  her.     He  turned  his  face  away. 

*'  I  answered  the  advertisement,  and  the  clergyman — the 
Vicar  of  Barnstaple,  who — who  buried  my  father — gave  me  a 
testimonial.  He  was  very  kind.  He  said  I  was  very  fortunate 
in  obtaining  a  situation,  and  I  should  have  been  if — " 

"  If  I  had  not  appeared,"  he  said,  gravely. 

"  Perhaps  I  shall  be  able  to  get  another,"  she  said,  calmly. 
"  I  will  go  back  to  the  cottage  and  wait." 

"  No,"  he  said;  "you  must  not  go  back.  Listen  to  me, 
Lyra."  He  stopped  and  bit  his  lip.  "  I  beg  your  pardon. 
Miss  Chester,  I  do  not  ask  you  to  forgive  me  for — for  what 
has  passed  between  us.  I — I  was  mad  that  day  up  in  the  val- 
ley there — "  His  voice  dropped  sadly.  The  vision  of  those 
few  happy  hours  rose  before  him  as  they  rose  before  her. 
"  Knowing  that — that  I  was  not  a  free  man,  I  should  have 
kept  silence.  I  had  no  right  to  say  what  I  did.  Miss  Chester, 
I  am  engaged  to  marry  Lady  Theodosia." 

"  I  know  that.  I  think  I  knew  it  the  moment  I  heard  her 
name,  saw  her,"  she  said,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  rose-tree  in 


1T<5  ONCE    IN    A    IJFE. 

front  of  her,  a  magnificent  Gloire,  bowed  down  with  its  weight 
of  blossoms. 

"  We  were  betrothed  almost  in  our  cradles,"  he  went  on, 
like  a  man  who  has  a  bitter,  bad  task  before  him,  but  means 
to  get  through  with  it  at  any  cost;  "  our  fathers  arranged  it; 
we  ratified  it,  but  I — I  forgot  it— God  forgive  me! — that  day 
up  the  valley.  I  behaved  like  a  coward,  a  cur,  but " — he 
looked  at  her,  at  the  lovely  eyes,  with  their  sad,  intent  gaze  at 
the  roses — "  but  I  was  sorely  tempted.  Until  that  day — that 
moment — I  did  not  know  what  love  meant;  I  did  not  know 
that  I  had  a  heart  in  my  bosom." 

Lyra's  lips  trembled. 

"  I — L— can  not  listen,"  she  said,  with  a  little  pant. 

"  You  are  right.  Do  not  go,"  for  she  had  made  as  if  to 
rise.  "  I  will  not  say  anything  of  that  sort  again.  I  will  try 
and  not  be  selfish,  though  I  am  a  man.  I  don't  want  to  think 
of  myself,  but  of  you." 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  gnawing  at  his  mustache;  then  he 
went  on: 

"  You  say  that  you  are  all  alone  in  the  world,  without 
friends?" 

For  one  second — one  only — Lyra  was  conscious  of  an  im- 
pulse, a  desire,  to  tell  him  of  Geoffrey  Barle— her  husband. 
But  this  impulse  lasted  only  for  a  moment.  She  could  not 
bring  herself  to  tell  him  of  that  mean,  base  bargain,  which 
Geoffrey  Barle  had  broken  directly  she  had  sacrificed  herself. 
Indeed,  why  should  she  tell  Lord  Dane  rather  than  any  other 
stranger?  He  was  nothing,  could  be  nothing,  to  her. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  almost  inaudibly. 

"  But  you  have  found  friends — both  Theodosia  and  Mrs. 
Leslie  like  you;  I  don't  wonder  at  that.  They  would  have 
hearts  of  stone  if  they  did  not.  Why  should  you  go?" 

"  Ah,  yes;  1  must  go,"  she  murmured. 

"  No,     he  said;  "  I  do  not  see  that.    I  have  done  you  quite 
injury  enough.     Why  should  I  be  the  cause  of  further  suffer- 
ing?   You  want  to  go  because  I  have  turned  up  here,  because 
you  think  we  must  meet  frequently. " 
,    She  turned  her  face  away. 

"  That  is  it,  is  it  not?"  he  said.  "  Merciful  Heaven!"  he 
broke  out,  losing  his  self-possession  for  a  moment.  "  Why 
was  I — I — who  lov — was  I  fated  to  bring  you  uuhappiness? 
Ly — Miss  Chester,  you  must  not  go.  You  have  found  a  home; 
f-ieiids.  You  must  not  add  to  my  misery,  my  remorse,  by 
leaving  them.  See,  now  " — he  grasped  the  arm  of  the  seat; 
it  cost  him  something  to  refrain  from  touching  her,  from  put- 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  177 

ting  his  arm  round  her.  "  You  must  not  fear  me.  Great 
Heaven!  you  are  not  afraid  of  me,  are  you?'* 

"  Afraid?    'No/'  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Well,  then,  why  should  you  go?  You  will  see  very  little 
of  me.  I  can  go  away,  I  can  go  abroad — " 

He  saw  by  her  face  that  this  argument  was  a  bad  one. 

"  Oh,  no,  no!"  she  said,  still  in  the  same  sad  murmur. 
"  You  would  leave  her  because  I  am  here.  I  should  be  keep- 
ing you  from  her,  from  Lady  Theodosia." 

He  gnawed  at  bis  mustache  and  strode  up  and  down  the 
narrow  path. 

"  You  are  right,"  he  said.  "  I — I  am  a  coward  and  an 
idiot.  You  are  quicker  than  I  am,  see  further  than  I  do. 
Well,  then,  I  will  not  go  abroad.  But  I  will  not  come  here 
often.  Theodosia  is  used  to  long  spells  of  absence,"  he  smiled 
bitterly.  "  But  when  I  am  here  we — you  and  I — need  see  very 
little  of  each  other.  I  say  this  for  my  sake.  I  am  not  such 
a  conceited  fool  as  to  imagine  that  you — you  bestow  a  thought 
on  me,  after — after — now  that  you  know  I  belong  to  another 
woman/' 

He  looked  straight  before  him;  but  if  he  had  looked  into 
her  face  he  would  not  have  been  able  to  read  anything  there. 
She  was  schooling  herself,  and  was  learning  to  keep  her  eyes 
from  showing  her  heart. 

"  I  am  nothing  to  you,  I  know  that,"  he  went  on,  after  a 
pause.  "  Why  should  I  drive  you  away.  Lyra — Miss  Chester, 
don't  go,  don't  add  to  my  misery.  As  it  is,  my  punishment 
is  almost  more  than  I  can  bear.  I  won't  answer  for  myself  if 
you  leave  here,  and  I  have  to  go  about  knowing  that  I  have 
driven  you  into  the  cruel  world  without  a  friend." 

She  was  silent,  but  her  lips  trembled. 

"  See  here,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  grew  hoarse  and  husky. 

"  You  and  I  can  never  be  anything  more  to  each  other;  Fate 
has  been  one  too  many  for  us;  but" — his  voice  broke  for  a 
moment,  then  he  continued  with  a  fierce  eagerness — "  but  we 
can  be  friends.  Great  Heaven!  there  can  be  such  a  thing  as 
friendship  between  men  and  women,  though  the  world  laughs 
at  the  idea  and  makes  a  mock  of  it.  Lyra,  you  forgive  me?" 
he  demanded,  suddenly,  and  he  bent  over  her. 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his  almost  for  the  first  time. 

"  Forgive?"  she  said,  sadly.  "  There  is  nothing  to  forgive, 
Lord  Dane." 

"  Nothing!"  he  said,  with  a  bitter  laugh.  "  There  has  been 
enough  to  keep  me  awake  night  after  night,  enough  to  make 
me  wish  myself  dead,  Lyra,  they  say  if  you  save  a  man's  life 


178  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

you  will  live  to  rue  it;  that  sooner  or  later  you  will  come  to 
wish  that  you  had  let  him  die.     You  saved  my  life — " 

"  Oh,  no!" 

"  Yes,  and  yes!  Do  you  think  I  forget?  And  a  pretty  re- 
turn I  made  for  that  life!  Nothing  to  forgive!  I  wishyoa 
had  let  me  sink  in  the  Taw  that  day!" 

She  shuddered. 

"  Do — do  not  go  back  to  that!"  she  faltered,  piteously. 

He  mastered  his  emotion. 

"  You  are  right,"  he  said,  sadly.  "  I  must  not  go  back;  I 
have  to  forget  it.  It  is  a  devil  of  a  hard  lesson,  but  I've  got 
to  learn  it.  But  you  say  you  forgive  me?  Well,  then,  grant 
my  request,  my  prayer.  Let  me  think  that  you  really  mean 
what  you  say;  prove  it  by  staying  on  here." 

"  Will  nothing  less  satisfy  you?"  she  said,  in  a  tremulous 
voice.  "  Better  let  me  go." 

"  No,  no!"  he  said.  "  If— if  you  go  " — he  stopped  for  a 
moment,  then  went  on  vehemently — "  then,  by  Heaven,  I  go, 
too!  If  you  go,  I  will  follow  you.  I  will  break  my  word,  my 
Vow;  I  will  cast  honor  to  the  winds;  I  will — 

He  had  drawn  closer  to  her,  and  let  his  hand  fall  on  her 
shoulder.  Lyra  shrunk  back  and  looked  up  at  him. 

"  No,  no!"  she  breathed.  "You  must  not,  you  cannotl 
I— I—" 

Her  face  grew  white. 

"  Well,  then,"  he  said,  with  suppressed  passion,  "  make  up 
your  mind.  Stay  here,  and  let  us  be  friends.  I  will  never 
say  one  word  to  remind  you — to — to  offend  you.  I  will  let  the 
past  go  as  if  it  had  never  been.  To  the  world — the  outside 
world — we  will  be  as  strangers;  only  you  and  I  shall  know  that 
a  tie — a  tie  of  the  warmest,  closest  friendship  that  ever  existed 
between  man  and  woman — binds  us.  Never  by  word  or  look 
will  I  remind  you  of  the  past  or  offend  you.  Stay,  Lyra — 
•  Miss  Chester — don't  add  to  my  punishment.  Stay  " — for  she 
had  opened  her  lips — "  stay!"  and  his  face  grew  white.  "  It 
is  not  for  your  forgiveness  alone  that  I  plead,  but  for  my 
honor." 

"Your  honor?" 

"  Yes.  I  swear  that  if  you  leave  here,  I  will  break  off  my 
engagement  with  Theodosia!" 

She  looked  at  him  with,  white  face  and  alarmed  eyes. 

"  Oh,  no,  no!"  she  breathed.  "  It — it  would  be  of  no  use." 

"  I  know  that,"  he  said,  bitterly — "  I  kndw  that  you  do 
not  care  for  me,  that  you  do  not  love  me.  If  ever  you  might 
have  learned  to  do  so,  the  knowledge  of  my  treachery — God 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  179 

forgive  me! — would  have  crushed  out  any  fondness  you  might 
have  had  for  me.  I  know  all  that;  but  all  the  same  I  would 
break  my  vow,  I  would  break  off  this  engagement — " 

"  Oh,  stop,  stop!"  she  panted,  her  head  sinking  on  her 
bosom.  "  If  you  only  knew!  It  is  I  who  ought  to  ask  your 
forgiveness.  It  is  I — I!"  The  tears  started  in  her  eyes  and 
blinded  her  for  a  moment.  Then  she  looked  up  at  him, 
though  she  could  scarcely  see  him.  "  It — it  shall  be  as  you 
wish,  Lord  Dane,"  she  said.  "  I — I  will  stay.  But — but 
remember  that  the  past  is  dead  and  buried.  You  do  not  know 
all — you  can  not  guessr^ii-rSer^yoice  broke  and  she  was  silent 
a  moment.  "  If  yeti  did,  youtKmld  know  that  we  never 
could,  never,  never,  be  anything  mor^'-ihan  friends/' 

"  I  am  content/'  he  said,  with  a  land  ^f  suppressed  passion. 

"  Let  me  call  you  friend.  Let  me  klaow  that  the  past  is 
wiped  out,  that  I  have  your  forgiveness,  that  I  am  not  in  your 
eyes  the  beastly  coward  and  traitor  I  am  in  my  own — 

"  In  the  garden,  did  you  say?"  said  a  grave,  clear  voice  at 
this  moment. 

Dane  started  and  looked^  round. 

"  It  is  the  parson,"  he  salft^aai-gfi'awing  his  mustache,  he 
stood  upright  as  an  arrow. 

Lyra  looked  up.  A  tall,  thin  young  man  in  clerical  garb 
was  coming  up  the  path. 

"  Good -morning,  Lord  Dane,"  he  said;  then  he  stopped 
and  raised  his  hat  to  Lyra. 

Dane  eyed  him  rather  grimly  and  sulkily. 

"  This  is  Mr.  Martin  Fanshawe,  Miss  Chester,"  he  said. 

The  Reverend  Martin  glanced  from  one  to  the  other  in  his 
grave,  almost  stern  fashion. 

"  How  do  you  do?"  he  said.  "  Lady  Theodosia  sent  me  to 
look  for  you,  Miss  Chester.  I  don't  think  she  knows  you  are 
here,  Lord  Dane." 

Dane  lugged  a  cigar  from  his  pocket  and  lighted  it. 

"  Been  to  some  meeting,  I  suppose?"  he  said,  rather  gruffly. 

"  The  committee  meeting  of  the  Society  of  Clear-Starchers," 
said  Mr.  Fanshawe,  gravely. 

Lyra  got  up  and  went  toward  the  house,  and  Dane  kept  Mr. 
Fanshawe  talking  for  a  few  minutes,  then  followed  with  him. 


.  CHAPTER  XXIV. 

BOTH  men  stayed  to  lunch.  Mr.  Fanshawe  and  Lady 
Theodosia  did  nearly  all  the  talking.  Lyra  sat  silent,  scarcely 
listening,  and  Dane  was  "Uent  also.  He  eat  his  lunch— there 


180  '  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

were  lobster  cutlets — in  a  preoccupied  fashion,  and  now  and 
again  he  glanced  at  the  beautiful  face  opposite  him. 

What  a  cross-purposed  jade  Fate  was!  There  sat  the  woman 
he  loved,  and  who,  he  thought  and  felt,  might  have  loved 
him — there  she  sat,  silent  and  sad,  perhaps  thinking  of  him. 
And  there,  near  her,  was  the  little  woman  he  was  going  to 
marry;  and  though  she  might  love  him,  she  certainly  was  not 
thinking  of  him,  for  all  her  attention  was  given  to  the  tall, 
thin  young  clergyman  who  talked  glibly  and  gravely  of  clear- 
starchers,  Dorcas  societies,  mothers'  meetings,  cottage-garden 
clubs,  and  the  parish  Sunday-schools.  She  appeared  so  ab- 
sorbed hi  all  those  important  topics  as  to  have  forgotten  Lord 
Dane's  existence. 

After  lunch  she  rose. 

"  I  think  we  might  make  out  those  lists/'  she  said. 
"Lyra" — she  looked  at  Lyra  hesitatingly — "do  you  feel 
well  enough  to  help  us?  Are  you  sure?"  For  Lyra  had  an- 
swered "Yes,"  with  quiet  promptitude.  "  At  any  rate,  you 
might  sit  in  an  easy-chair  and  listen.  You  could  pick  up  a 
great  deal  of  the  work  that  way.  You  are  going  to  smoke  a 
cigar  on  the  terrace,  I  suppose,  Dane?"  she  said  to  him,  over 
her  shoulder,  as  she  left  the  room. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said,  carelessly.  "  I've  got  a  kind  of 
an  idea  that  I'm  interested  in  the  work,  also.  I  fancy  I'll 
come — that  is,  if  I  may  do  the  easy-chair  part  likewise." 

"  Oh,  come,  if  you  like!"  she  said,  indifferently;  but  Mr. 
Fanahawe  frowned  slightly. 

They  went  into  the  library,  and  Lady  Theodosia  took  her 
seat  at  the  table.  Mr.  Fanshawe  produced  a  bag  of  books,  and 
they  fell  to. 

Lyra  stood  near  the  window  for  a  time;  but  presently  Dane, 
who  had  been  staring  at  the  book-shelves,  pushed  a  chair  to- 
ward her. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

At  the  same  moment  Lady  Theodosia  looked  up.  Her  face 
was  eager,  and  her  eyes  wore  an  expression  of  concentration. 
It  was  evident  that  she  was  wrapped  in  her  work. 

"  Miss  Chester,  will  you  copy  this  for  me?  That  is,  if  you 
are  sure  you  are  well  enough,"  she  added,  kindly  enough. 

"  Yes,"  said  Lyra;  and  gladly  she  took  the  paper  to  a  side 
table. 

She  had  not  been  writing  many  minutes  before  a  shadow 
fell  on  her  paper.  Lord  Daoe  was  standing  over  her. 

"  Can  you  make  it  out?"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  though 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  Ibl 

there  was  no  occasion  for  it,  for  the  other  two  were  too  ab- 
sorbed to  notice  him. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  said. 

He  picked  up  the  copy. 

"  I'll  read  it  out  to  you,"  he  said.  "  You'll  get  on  faster 
that  way." 

"  No,  thanks,"  she  said,  a  faint  color  coming  into  her  face; 
but  he  ignored  her  refusal. 

"  Ready?  Right;  off  we  go.  What  is  it?  Report  of  the 
"Visiting  Committee?  Humph!  Ready? 

"  *  The  committee  have  distributed  two  thousand  four  hun- 
dred and  sixty-one  tracts  during  the  last  six  months,  and  vis- 
ited one  hundred  and  sixty-four  homes.  They  regret  that  in 
many  cases  they  were  received  with  anything  but  a  warm  wel- 
come, and  that  their  attempts  to  brighten  the  homes  of  the 
poor  were  often  met  with  repugnance  and  discourtesy. '  Some 
of  'em  got  a  brick  at  their  heads,  I  suppose.  Not  surprised. 
Wonder  how  they'd  like  Bill  Stumps  to  march  into  their 
houses  while  they  were  at  dinner,  and  ask  them  how  much 
wine  they  drank,  and  how  often  they  washed  their  babies? 
Some  of  these  days  that's  what  will  happen  when  the  '  work- 
ing-man '  gets  the  upper  hand,  and,  by  George!  it  can't  be  long 
first." 

He  had  raised  his  voice  and  disturbed  the  other  two. 

"  What  are  you  talking  about,  Dane?"  demanded  Lady 
Theodosia,  a  delicate  line  on  her  smooth  forehead. 

"  I  am  dictating  the  report  to  Miss  Chester,"  he  replied, 
blandly.  "  Endeavoring  to  make  myself  useful,  am  I  not, 
Miss  Chester?" 

His  eyes  forced  hers  to  rise  to  them.  There  was  a  light  in 
them,  a  boyish  joyousness  which  had  been  absent  since — well, 
since  he  had  left  her  that  morning  weeks  ago. 

"  I — I  can  do  it  without  the  dictation,  my  lord,"  she  said, 
Cjuietly. 

"  There  you  are,  you  see!"  he  exclaimed,  laying  down  the 
report.  "  If  I  try  to  be  good,  I  don't  get  any  encouragement. 
I  might  just  as  well  have  been  outside  with  a  cigar." 

Yes,  there  was  a  touch  of  the  old  boyish  and  light-hearted 
eayetv  in  his  voice.  The  line  in  Lady  Theodosia's  forehead 
j  i 

deepened. 

"  Why  do  you  make  a  jest  of  it,  Dane?"  she  said,  in  her 
low,  grave  voice.  "  Life  is  real;  life  is  earnest,"  she  quoted. 

He  looked  at  her  gravely;  the  smile  had  vaniihed  from  his 
lace. 


183  OITCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

"  Yes,  it's  real  and  earnest  enough,"  he  said;  and  his  eyes 
rested  for  a  moment  on  Lyra's  head  as  she  bent  over  her  task. 

He  opened  the  French  window  as  he  spoke,  and  went  out  on 
to  the  terrace. 

Lady  Theodosia  sighed. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  think  Lord  Dane  very  frivolous,  Miss 
Chester,"  she  said,  hi  a  tone  of  regret  and  apology.  Lyra 
looked  up,  but  said  nothing,  which  was  just  as  well,  perhaps, 
for  he  came  sauntering  back  to  the  window,  a  cigar  in  hit. 
mouth. 

"  Mr.  Fanshawe,"  he  said. 

That  gentleman  looked  up  with  knit  brows. 

"  What  is  it  now,  Dane?"  asked  Lady  Theodosia.  "  Mr. 
Fanshawe  is  very  busy." 

"  So  I  see.  I  won't  interrupt  him  for  long,':  he  said,  with 
mock  meekness.  "  I  was  only  going  to  ask  him  if  he  will  come 
over  and  dine  with  us  to-morrow. " 

Lady  Theodosia  looked  surprised  and — well,  yes,  rather 
pleased.  Mr.  Fanshawe  only  looked  surprised. 

"  Thank  you,  Lord  Dane,"  he  said,  coldly.  "  To-morrow?" 
He  thought  for  a  moment.  "  I  have  a  young  woman's  cate- 
chism class  to-morrow,  otherwise  I  should — 

"  Bring  'em  with  you,"  said  the  irrepressible  Dane. 

Lady  Theodosia  frowned  outright. 
,    "  My  dear  Dane,  if  you  would  only  be  serious!" 

" Never  more  serious  hi  my  life,"  he  said.  "Nothing 
would  give  the  guv'nor  more  pleasure." 

"  You  might  put  off  the  class  for  once,"  suggested  Lady 
Theodosia  to  Mr.  Fanshawe,  in  a  confidential,  business  kind  of 
way. 

Do  you  think  so,  Lady  Theodosia?"  he  hesitated. 

"Oh,  you'd  better  come,"  said  Dane.  "Look  here;  if 
you're  all  good,  I'll  drive  over  and  fetch  you  in  the  break  and 
drive  you  home  again.  It  will  be  a  lovely  night.  There  will 
be  just  enough  of  you.  Mrs.  Leslie,  you,  Dosie,  Miss  Chester, 
and  Mr.  Fanshawe." 

Lyra  looked  up,  a  faint  color  on  her  face. 

"  I  need  not  go.  I  will  stay  at  home,"  she  said,  in  a  low 
voice. 

Dane  was  on  the  point  of  bursting  out  with  a  remonstrance, 
but  wisely  held  his  tongue. 

"  Oh,  but  you  must  go!"  said  Lady  Theodosia.     "  I  think 
the  drive  would  do  you  good.    You  are  feeling  quite  well  now, 
are  you  not?" 
u  Lyra  still  hesitated.    She  could  feel  Dane's  eyes  were  watch' 


rs  A  im  isa 

ing  h£r,  though  he  appeared  to  be  engaged  in  closely  examin- 
ing his  cigar. 

"  Better  come,  Miss  Chester/'  he  said,  at  last;  and  with  an 
affectation  of  polite  indifference.  "  My  father  expects  you  all, 
and  does  not  like  to  be  disappointed."' 

"  Very  well;  thank  you/'  she  said,  and  bent  over  her  work 
again. 

"  All  right,"  he  said,  as  if  the  matter  wero  settled,  "  I'm 
off  now.  Don't  disturb  yourselves,  any  of  you." 

He  nodded  to  them  all  generally,  but  his  eyes  lingered 
longest  on  Lyra. 

Lady  Theodosia  sighed. 

"  Poor  Dane!  He  is  just  like  a  great  school-boy/'  she  said, 
almost  to  herself. 

And  Mr.  Fanshawe,  with  his  earnest  eyes  fixed  on  her, 
echoed  the  sigh. 

Perhaps  she  would  not  have  called  him  a  school-boy  if  she 
had  seen  him  as  he  went  down  the  drive  on  his  big  chestnut; 
for  there  were  the  heavy  lines  of  doubt,  perplexity,  and  a 
man's  restless,  unsatisfied  longing  in  his  handsome  face. 

"  So  near,  and  yet  so  far!  he  muttered,  with  something 
like  a  groan.  "  Oh,  my  love  that  never  can  be  mine!" 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

LYRA  would  willingly  have  avoided  the  visit  to  Stanninster. 
What  right  had  she  to  join  the  pleasures  of  her  mistress?  Why 
should  she,  the  companion,  the  amanuensis,  be  invited  to  dine 
with  the  Earl  of  Starminster? 

But  when  she  ventured,  the  next  morning,  as  she  was  writing 
letters  at  Lady  Theodosia' s  dictation,  to  say  that  she  was  quite 
willing  to  stay  at  home,  Lady  Theodosia  put  aside  the  sugges- 
tion with  a  wave  of  the  hand. 

"  Why  should  you  not  go?"  she  said.  *  You  seem  quite 
well  and  strong  again." 

"Yes;  I  am  quite— quite  well,"  said  Lyra;  "and  I  am 
very  strong." 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  Lady  Theodosia,  as  if  that  settled 
the  matter.  "  I  know  what  your  objection  is  based  upon. 
You  think  that  Lord  Dane  only  asked  you  out  of  politeness,  as 
a  matter  of  courtesy,  and  that  because — well,  because  you  are 
acting  as  my — shall  we  say  secretary? — you  would  bede  trop." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lyra. 

"  Well,  that  is  all  nonsense.  Forgive  me,  if  I  speak  plainly, 
but  I— Mrs.  Leslie — would  not  have  asked  you  t<?  come  and 


184  OUCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

help  me,  if  yon  had  not  been  a  lady;  and  I  count  you  as  one 
of  us.  I  know  that  at  one  time  some  persons  treated  those  ia 
their — well,  employ — as  if  they  were  made  of  quite  inferior 
clay;  but  those  persons  are  not  very  numerous  now,  and  those 
times  have  passed  away.  By  all  means,  accept  Lord  Star- 
minster's  invitation.  The  little  outing,  the  small  excitement, 
will  do  you  good.  Here  is  another  letter.  It  is  to  the  secre- 
tary of  the  Home  for  Helpless  Sweeps." 

And  she  dictated  the  letter. 

Lyra  said  no  more,  but  went  on  with  hti*  work,  and  in  the 
afternoon  put  on  her  plain  black  cashmere,  and  awaited  Lord 
Dane's  arrival. 

He  turned  up  at  six  o'clock,  with  a  pair  of  handsome  chest- 
nuts in  a  light  wagonette.  He  had  not  brought  a  groom,  and 
called  out  through  the  open  door  into  the  hall  where  the 
ladies  stood: 

"  I  won't  get  down.  Don't  keep  me  longer  than  half  an 
hour,  unless  you  want  the  horses  to  make  mince-pie  of  your 
gravel,  Dosie." 

"  I  call  that  base  ingratitude,  seeing  that  we  are  ready  and 
waiting,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie. 

He  looked  down  at  them  with  a  smile  on  his  handsome  face, 
and  tried  to  keep  the  light  of  admiration,  and,  alas!  love,  out 
of  his  eyes  as  they  rested  on  Lyra. 

"  Now,  who  is  going  to  ride  up  here?"  he  said.  "  Do  you 
care  about  it,  Fanshawe?" 

"  Perhaps  one  of  the  ladies  would  like  to,"  said  Mr.  Fan- 
shawe. 

"  All  right,"  assented  Dane,  with  alacrity. 

"  Not  for  me — thanks,"  remarked  Mrs.  Leslie,  promptly. 
"  I  know  those  horses,  and  while  I  can  see  them  I  am  always 
wondering  whether  they  are  going  to  run  away  or  climb  the 
trees. " 

"  That  doesn't  say  much  for  my  driving,"  said  Dane. 
"  Coming,  Dosie?" 

But  Lady  Theodosia  wanted  to  talk  parish  matters  with  Mr. 
Fanshawe. 

"  Do  you  mind,  Lyra?"  she  said. 

"  I'll  promise  not  to  let  them  run  away  or  climb  the  trees, 
Miss  Chester,"  said  Dane.  "  Here,  give  me  your  hand;"  and 
he  bent  down  and  helped  her  up  to  the  seat  beside  him.  "  Got 
plenty  of  wraps?  It  may  be  chilly  coming  home.  That's  all 
right.  Off  we  are!"  and  the  chestnuts  bounded  forward  as  if 
they  had  been  released  by  a  spring. 


OKCE    IN    A    LIFE.  185 

Dane  kept  his  attention  on  them  for  a  few  minutes,  then  he 
got  the  dust-wrap  and  put  it  over  Lyra's  knees. 

"  Hope  you  are  not  nervous?"  he  said.  "  But  I  needn't 
ask  that/'  he  added,  as  he  glanced  at  her  face,  upon  which  a 
faint  rose  color  had  dawned,  but  certainly  no  shadow  of  fright. 

"  I  am  not  afraid,  if  that  is  what  you  mean,"  she  said. 
"  How  beautiful  and  shiny  they  are!" 

"  You  are  fond  of  horses?" 

"  Yes,  though  I  know  nothing  about  them.  I  did  not  see 
many  horses  in  the  val — " 

She  stopped  suddenly,  and  the  rose  in  her  cheeks  turned  to 
carnation  which  faded  and  left  them  pale. 

He  looked  straight  ahead,  as  if  he  did  not  hear  her;  then, 
after  a  moment,  he  began  to  point  out  the  objects  of  interest 
as  the  chestnuts  went  swiftly  along  the  road. 

"  That's  Fernley  Hollow;  the  fairies  dance  there  on  All- 
hallows  Eve.  Fernley  Parish  Church — all  the  church  towers 
are  alike  in  this  county.  I'm  not  up  in  architecture,  but  I 
conclude  that  they  must  either  have  all  been  built  by  one  man, 
or  the  other  fellows  copied  him,  and  so  on;"  and  he  carefully 
avoided  looking  in  her  direction. 

So  presently  the  color  stole  back  into  Lyra's  cheeks;  the 
beauty  of  the  evening,  the  swift,  sure  trot  of  the  horses,  and, 
alas  and  alas!  his  near  presence,  brought  peace  and  a  sem- 
blance of  happiness  to  her  weary  heart. 

After  awhile  they  turned  off  the  main  road  and  passed  be- 
tween some  open  gates  of  white  wood. 

"  We're  on  our  own  land  now,"  he  said. 

Lyra  started  slightly  and  sighed. 

"  Why  that  sigh?"  he  asked.  "Has  Theodosia,  who  is 
almost  a  communist,  already  begun  to  teach  you  that  it  is 
wicked  to  own  land — or,  indeed,  anything  else  beyond  sixpence 
and  a  suit  of  clothes?" 

Lyra  smiled. 

"  I  suppose  we  shall  soon  be  there?"  she  said,  ingenuously. 

"  Oh,  that's  it!"  he  remarked.  "  You  mean  that  the  drive 
is  too  short.  Why  didn't  you  say  so  before  we  turned  in  at 
the  gates?  I  could  have  made  a  longer  round  of  it." 

"Oh!  no,  no,"  she  murmured. 

"  But  we've  some  distance  to  go  yet,"  he  said.  "  Didn't 
you  bring  a  sun-shade?  Never  mind,  we  shall  be  in  the 
shadow  of  the  trees  directly." 

The  sun  was  shining  between  the  leaves,  throwing  a  red 
glow  on  the  chestnuts  and  the  well-kept  road;  the  birds  were 
ringing  their  evensongj  a  rabbit,  fat  and  white  of  tail,  scurried 


186  OKCE    IN    A    UFE. 

across  the  glades  now  and  again,  and  a  squirrel  ran  up  a  tree 
and  sat  watching  them  with  twinkling  eyes. 

Lord  Dane  and  Lyra  were  silent  for  awhile,  and  scraps  of  the 
Conversation  being  earned  on  behind  them  reached  them. 

"  An  evening  school  for  the  boys,  and  a  Scripture  class  for 
the  girls,  say  twice  a  week,"  they  heard  Lady  Theodosia  say 
earnestly;  and  the  Reverend  Martin  Fanshawe's  grave,  reso- 
nant voice  answering  her:  "  Yes,  it  would  be  a  good  thing; 
but  you  must  not  undertake  too  much.  It  is  well  to  labor  in 
the  vineyard,  but  I — we"— he  corrected  himself — "  must  not 
overtask  your  strength." 

Dane  smiled  grimly. 

"  Are  you  going  to  teach  in  the  Sunday  school,  Miss  Ches- 
ter?" he  asked. 

"I?  No,  I — I  don't  think  so.  I  am  not  capable  of  it. 
Besides,  Lady  Theodosia  has  not  asked  me." 

"  You  may  be  sure  she  will  do  so,"  he  responded.  "  I 
rather  think  she  asked  me."  He  laughed,  and  Lyra  could 
not  help  a  soft  echo  of  the  laugh.  There  was  always  some- 
thing infectious  in  Dane's  light-heartedness.  "  I  offered  to 
go  down  on  a  week  night  and  teach  'em  boxing  and  fencing, 
or  to  give  some  of  them  a  wrinkle  in  the  art  of  throwing  the 
fly-'* 

He  pulled  himself  up,  but  not  before  the  crimson  had 
flooded  Lyra's  face  again.  Were  they  doomed  to  remind  each, 
other,  every  five  minutes,  of  the  past? 

He  flicked  the  off  horse,  and  the  surprised  animal,  who  had 
been  behaving  like  an  angel  with  four  legs,  jumped  and  fid- 
geted. 

"  Do  they  ever  run  away?"  asked  Lyra,  quietly. 

"  They  try  it  on  sometimes,"  he  said.  They  managed  to 
get  then*  heads  one  day  when  the  coachman  was  driving,  and 
ran  for  a  couple  of  miles.  They  don't  get  enough  work;  my 
father  objects  to  going  fast — excepting  in  a  train — and  I  am 
not  often  here.  But  you  need  not  be  anxious.  They  won't 
get  away  with  us  this  evening.  Would  you  like  to  see  them 
stretch  themselves?  Would  you  like  to  go  fast?" 

Before  she  had  considered  her  answer  she  had  said  yes. 

He  nodded  with  a  glance  of  approval. 

"  I  had  an  idea  you  would,"  he  said.  He  touched  them 
with  the  extreme  end  of  the  whip  and  let  them  have  their 
heads  a  little,  and  away  they  went. 

The  color  rose  to  Lyra's  face,  the  light  danced  in  her  eyes. 
Then  she  remembered  the  other  two  ladies  behind. 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  187 

"  Will  they  mind,  be  frightened?"  she  said,  looking  at  him 
apologetically.  "  I  did  not  think — 

"  Not  they,"  he  said;  "  and  just  think  of  yourself,  will 
you?"  he  added,  rather  grimly,  "  for  have  you  not  sold  your- 
self into  slavery — " 

"  Have  those  wretched  horses  bolted,  Lord  Dane?"  broke 
in  Mrs.  Leslie's  voice,  but  without  much  alarm  in  it. 

"  No,  mum,"  he  replied,  in  coachman  fashion;  "only  a 
bit  fresh,  mum." 

"  Please  don't  drive  so  recklessly,  Dane/'  came  Lady  The- 
odosia's  calm,  grave  voice. 

He  bit  his  lip  softly,  but  pulled  up  the  horses. 

"  I  wonder  whether  the  parson  looked  afraid?"  he  mut- 
tered; then,  a  little  louder:  "  I  wish  you  and  I  had  been  alone; 
we'd  have  spun  them  for  a  couple  of  miles,  at  any  rate." 

Lyra  turned  her  face  away.  They  had  been  alone  once,  but 
it  was  very  unlikely  that  they  would  be  alone  again  for  more 
than  a  few  minutes  as  long  as  their  lives  lasted. 

"  There's  the  house,"  he  said,  presently,  as  he  took  the 
horses  round  a  curve  in  masterly  fashion. 

Lyra  raised  her  eyes  from  the  horses  and  uttered  an  excla- 
mation of  amazed  admiration. 

Castle  Towers  had  seemed  grand  to  her,  but  this  was  a  pal- 
ace which  she  had  never  pictured  even  in  imagination.  The 
sun  was  shining  obliquely  across  its  immense  facade,  and  bring- 
ing out  all  its  strong  points  in  the  most  striking  and  effective 
manner.  The  great  elms  cast  long  shadows  over  the  velvet 
turf;  the  water  in  the  basins  of  the  fountains  glittered  crimson 
and  yellow;  a  peacock  perched  on  the  rail  of  the  terrace  spread 
its  tail,  as  if  prompted  by  a  desire  to  vie  with  the  colors  around 
him. 

"  How  lovely!  how  lovely!"  Lyra  murmured. 

He  looked  at  her  rapt  eyes  and  then  at  the  house — at  the 
latter  indifferently  enough. 

"  It's  a  huge  barrack  of  a  place,"  he  said,  carelessly,  almost 
apologetically. 

"  A  barrack!"  said  Lyra,  reproachfully. 

"  Well,  that's  what  I  call  it,"  he  said.  •'  We  are  not  often 
here.  You  see,  there  are  only  two  of  us,  and  it's  fearfully  dull. 
We're  lost  in  it.  My  father—  I  hope  you  will  like  my  fa- 
ther," he  broke  off. 

Lyra  smiled  faintly. 

"It  is  of  more  importance  that  Lord  Starmmster  should 
like  me,"  she  said,  quietly. 

"  I'll  answer  for  his  liking  you/'  he  said.        He  eouldn  t 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

help  it.  But  I  was  saying  that  my  father,  when  he  is  here, 
practically  lives  in  the  library.  I  believe  when  he  is  alone  he 
has  his  meals  there.  They  send  him  in  a  chop — he  fancies 
that  chops  are  the  only  safe  things  for  the  gout — or  a  chicken; 
anything,  he  is  quite  content.  He  sits  there  all  day  reading 
or  writing,  and  at  night  hobbles  up  to  bed.  That  makes  two, 
or  at  most  three  or  four  rooms;  and  there  are  all  the  rest.  I 
forget  how  many  bedrooms  there  are,  over  a  hundred,  I  believe; 
and  there  aren't  even  ghosts  to  occupy  them,  for,  somehow, 
the  ghosts  have  shamefully  neglected  us,  and  we  haven't  a 
haunted  chamber  in  the  whole  place." 

"  But  you  have  friends,  visitors?"  said  Lyra,  absently;  she 
was  still  looking  with  amazement  at  the  vast  pile  of  white  stone. 

"  Oh,  yes;  a  lot  come  down  for  a  fortnight  in  the  autumn. 
Some  of  'em  come  for  the  shooting;  but  there  is  always  a 
batch  of  political  people.  My  father  is  a  Cabinet  minister,  you 
know.  I  told  you,  you  remember —  '  he  checked  himself  and 
colored.  Back  to  the  past  again!  He  would  be  making  some 
such  speech,  some  allusion  to  their  former  acquaintanceship, 
before  Theodosia  presently,  he  thought. 

Lyra  looked  down. 

"  Are  you  a  Cabinet  minister,  too?"  she  asked,  innocently. 
"  But,  oh,  no;  I  remember — " 

He  stared  at  her,  then  laughed. 

"  I!  Good  heavens,  no!  I  am,  well,  I  am  just  nothing. 
And  always  shall  be.  Fve  no  more  brains  than  that  peacock. 
Here  we  are."  Then  with  a  sudden  recollection  of  his  man- 
ners, he  looked  round. 

"  Hope  you've  enjoyed  the  drive?"  he  said. 

"  I  do  not  see  why  there  should  be  any  difficulty  in  a  sur- 
pliced  choir — "  Lady  Theodosia  was  saying  to  Mr.  Fanshawe. 
*'  I  beg  your  pardon,  Dane;  what  did  you  say?  Oh,  yes; 
very  much,  indeed,  thank  you.  I  hope  you  have  not  frightened 
Miss  Chester  out  of  her  wits." 

"  Miss  Chester's  inside  her  wits  all  right,"  he  said,  flinging 
the  reins  to  a  groom.  He  held  out  his  arms  as  if  he  expected 
Lyra  to  leap  into  them,  but  she  drew  back. 

"  Give  me  your  hands,  then,"  he  said.     "  Now  jump." 

They  went  up  the  broad  steps  flanked  by  a  couple  of  huge 
lions  rampant,  and  entered  the  hall.  The  vastness,  though 
she  had  seen  that  of  Castle  Towers,  struck  Lyra.  The  sun 
streamed  in  through  a  large  stained  window  at  the  back,  a 
round  table,  with  a  tea-service,  stood  in  the  center,  surrounded 
by  palms.  Flowers  in  Oriental  vases  lined  the  stairs,  and,  in- 


ONCE    IK    A    LIFE.  189 

deed,  seemed  everywhere,  so  that  the  figures  of  warriors  in 
armor  appeared  as  if  in  a  bower. 

"  Have  some  tea  before  you  take  your  hats  off,"  said  Dane, 
in  his  downright  fashion. 

"  How  good  of  you  to  think  of  it,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Leslie. 
"  Really,  Lord  Dane,  you  are  growing  most  considerate." 

"Ain't  I?"  he  said.  "Here's  a  chair,  Miss  Chester. 
Rather  stand,  all  of  you?  Right.  Dosie,  pour  out  the  tea. 
Mr.  Fanshawe,  if  you'd  prefer  a  soda  and  whisky — we  don't 
dine  till  eight." 

The  Reverend  Martin  Fanshawe  looked  at  him  solemnly. 

"  I  am  a  total  abstainer,  Lord  Dane/'  he  said,  gravely. 

"  Right/'  said  Dane.  "  So  am  I — when  I  can't  get  any- 
thing to  drink,"  he  added,  in  a  whisper,  to  Lyra.  He  was 
evidently  in  the  best,  the  highest  spirits. 

While  Lady  Theodosia  was  pouring  out  the  tea,  the  earl 
came  out  of  the  library. 

He  was  in  evening-dress,  and  approached  them  with  a 
pleasant  smile  on  his  worn  face. 

"  Well,  my  dear  Dosie,"  he  said,  and  he  bent  and  kissed 
her  forehead.  It  was  evident  to  Lyra  that  he  was  fond  of 
Lady  Theodosia.  "How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Leslie?"  That 
lady  was  a  favorite  of  his,  and  his  smile  deepened  as  he  took 
her  hand.  He  exchanged  greetings  cordially  enough  with 
Martin  Fanshawe.  "  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Fan- 
shawe," he  said;  and  as  he  spoke  Lyra  noticed  the  resem- 
blance in  the  voices  of  the  father  and  the  son,  though  there 
was  only  the  shadow  of  Dane's  brightness  in  the  earl's, 
is  very  good  of  you  to  spare  an  hour  or  two  from  the  work 
which  I  hear  so  completely  absorbs  you."  Then  he  looked 
at  Lyra  with  a  calm,  expectant  expression  in  the  grave  eyes 
weary  with  the  burden  of  modern  politics. 

"  This  is  Miss  Chester,"  said  Lady  Theodosia.  '  You  re- 
member I  told  you—"  she  added,  in  a  lower  voice. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  and  he  bowed  to  Lyra,  his  eyes  fixed 
on  her  face;  then  he  held  out  his  hand.  "  I  am  very  glad  to 
see  you,  Miss  Chester,"  he  said,  in  the  tone  which,  though 
it  was  husky  with  much  public  speaking,  struck  Lyra  as  pe- 
culiarly musical  and  pleasant,  perhaps  because  it  had  the  echo 
of  Lord  Dane's  in  it.  With  the  perfection  of  courtesy,  he 
seated  himself  beside  her.  "  No  one  offers  me  a  cup  of  tea, 
he  said,  plaintively. 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Lady  Theodosia;  and  she 
poured  one  out  for  him.  Lyra  rose  to  pass  it  to  him,  and  he 
put  out  his  hand  to  stop  her,  but  drew  it  back. 


190  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

"  Why  should  I  not  avail  myself  of  the  privilege  of  aid  age?'" 
he  said,  with  a  smile.  "Alas!  Miss  Chester,  we  soon  learn 
that  we  are  old  when  ladies  insist  upon  waiting  upon  us.  Your 
name  seems  familiar  to  me,"  he  remarked,  his  eyes  dwelling 
on  her  face  with  the  admiration  which  an  old  man  may  permit 
himself  without  fear  of  giving  off ense.  "  I  used  to  know  some 
Chesters  of  Lowickshire;  are  you  of  that  branch?" 

"  Yes;  I  think  so.  I  have  heard  my  father  mention  them, 
my  lord,"  Lyra  replied. 

He  nodded  thoughtfully,  and  stirred  his  tea  with  his  spoon 
hi  the  old-fashioned  way. 

"  Then  we  may  almost  count  ourselves  old  friends,*'  he 
said,  with  his  pleasant  smile.  "  The  Chester  property  runs 
parallel  with  some  of  the  Starminster  land  in  Lowickshire.  Do 
you  like  these  parts?" 

"  I  have  only  been  here,  with  Lady  Theodosia,  a  few  days," 
said  Lyra;  "  and  at  present  I  have  not  seen  much  of  the  coun- 
try; but  we  drove  through  some  very  beautiful  scenery." 

"  Ah,  yes!"  he  said,  absently;  but  his  eyes  were  still  fixed 
on  her.  "  Dane  drove  you,  did  he  not?"  He  looked  across 
at  his  stalwart  son,  with  a  proud  and  affectionate  glance. 
"  Dane,  had  you  not  better  go  and  dress?" 

"  All  right,  sir,"  said  Dane.  "  I  can  change  in  ten  min- 
utes;" and  he  sprung  up  the  stairs,  two  steps  at  a  time. 

A  maid  came  to  show  the  ladies  to  some  rooms,  where  they 
could  put  themselves  straight  after  their  drive,  and  Lyra,  fol- 
lowing the  others,  got  a  glimpse  of  the  famous  picture-gallery, 
through  which  they  passed,  and  the  great  organ,  which  was 
said  to  be  the  finest  in  any  private  house  in  England. 

She  was  shown  into  a  large  room,  with  damask-covered 
walls  and  furniture,  almost  as  old  as  the  house  itself,  but  so 
carefully  preserved  that  it  looked  as  if  it  had  just  come  out  of 
a  modern  upholsterer's. 

As  she  brushed  her  hair,  which  the  wind  had  ruffled,  she 
could  not  help  wondering  at  the  freak  of  fate  which  had  or- 
dained that  she  should  be  here  in  Lord  Dane's  ancestral  home 
— she  who  had  never  expected  to  see  him  again. 

A  maid  hovered  about,  vainly  attempting  to  help  her,  and 
almost  piteously  offering  to  take  down  her  hair  and  rearrange 
it;  but  at  last,  in  a  kind  of  despair,  she  disappeared,  and  Lyra 
went  to  the  window  and  looked  out  upon  the  wide-stretching 
lawns,  waiting  for  the  bell  which  she  expected  to  ring. 

Presently  she  heard  it,  a  deep,  solemn-toned  gong,  and  she 
went  into  the  hall.  But  there  was  no  one  there,  excepting 
Lord  Dane.  He  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  flower- 


IH    A    LIFE.  191 

filled  fire-place,  his  head  dropped  thoughtfully,  and  at  the 
sound  of  her  footsteps  he  straightened  himself  and  came  for- 
ward to  meet  her. 

"  Am  I  the  first  down?"  she  said,  for  the  sake  of  saying 
something. 

"  Yes;  and  I  am  glad  of  it.  Oh!  they  never  appear  until 
five  or  ten  minutes  after  the  dinner-bell." 

"  I  did  not  know  that;  you  ought  to  have  told  me,"  she 
said,  with  a  smile. 

"lam  glad  I  didn't,"  he  said.  "It  gives  me  an  oppor- 
tunity of  showing  you  round.  But  perhaps  you  don't  care 
to  be  '  shown  round  '?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"  All  right,"  he  said,  hi  his  boyish  fashion.  "  Come  on, 
then.  I'll  try  and  do  my  duty."  He  caught  up  a  walking- 
stick,  and  with  a  burlesque  imitation  of  the  professional  guide, 
began  to  point  to  the  various  objects  of  interest  in  the  hall. 

'  Portrait  of  the  first  Starminster,  commonly  known  as 
*  Woodhead/  so  called  because  no  battle-ax  had  any  effect 
upon  his  cranium.  I've  got  the  same  kind  of  skull.  That's 
his  armor  hanging  above  the  picture.  See  the  dents  in  the 
helmet?  He  died  of  eating  too  many  mackerel — his  favorite 
dish.  Portrait  of  Catherine  Third,  Countess  of  Starminster. 
Observe  her  smile.  Two  of  those  smiles  were  warranted  to 
kill  of  policeman  of  the  period.  She  was  called  Catherine  the 
Amiable;  she  was  the  last  amiable  person  in  the  family.  That 
red-headed  gentleman,  with  the  squint  and  the  big  fur  muff, 
was  a  privy  councillor  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth.  He  was 
called  Starminster  the  Wise.  I  regret  to  say  that  he  absorbed 
all  the  wisdom  of  the  family.  That  lady  with  the  eyebrows 
and  the  large  mouth  was  called  Maude  the  Beautiful.  I 
have  spent  many  weary  years  in  the  attempt  to  discover  the 
feature  or  features  which  warranted  the  appellation.  In  the 
glass  case  beneath  the  portrait  you  will  observe  her  fan.  She 
was,  I  believe,  great  in  the  matter  of  fans  and  scented  hand- 
kerchiefs. She  died — of  vanity — in  the  year  1509.  That 
solemn  individual,  with  the  long  nose,  is  Wilford  Starminster, 
the  Preacher.  I  don't  know  what  he  preached,  but  I  be- 
lieve he  monopolized  nearly  all  the  jaw  of  the  family.  I  say 
nearly  all,  because,  as  you  know  " — he  stopped  and  colored — 
"  because  my  father  is  a  dab  at  public  speaking.  In  the  glass 
case  to  the  right  of  the  portrait  is  the  dagger  with  which  Ade- 
laide Tenth,  Countess  of  Starminster,  stabbed  her  husband. 
In  those  happy  days  the  dagger  was  a  fond  and  familiar  weap- 
on; now  we  stab  with  our  tongues.  Want  any  more?" 


192  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

"  Yes,  please,"  said  Lyra. 

"  Portrait  of  Edmund,  Earl  of  Starminster,  in  his  peer's 
robes.  That's  the  guv'nor.  What  a  jolly  life  he  could  have 
led  if  he  had  been  a  laborer  on  the  estate  with  fifteen  dol — I 
beg  your  pardon — shillings  a  week.  Portrait  of  your  humble 
servant  on  his  favorite  pony — pony's  leg  out  of  drawing,  as 
you  not  doubt  perceive.  Portrait  of  the  same  unworthy  in- 
dividual at  the  age  of  twenty-one;  staring  at  nothing  and  try- 
ing with  all  his  might  not  to  look  bored.  Flags — they  look 
like  read  rags,  don't  they? — carried  by  Starminsters  at  various 
battles  duly  chronicled  in  Mrs.  Monkham's  '  History  of  Eng- 
land.' Sword  worn  by  Reginald,  Earl  of  Starminster,  at  the 
battle  of  Salamanca.  Uniform  and  eye-glass  worn  by  Philip 
Starminster,  Admiral  of  the  Fleet,  at  the  battle  of  the  Kile. 
That  hole  in  the  coat  is  where  the  bullet  entered  which  put  an 
end  to  the  gallant  admiral.  Have  any  more?" 

Lyra  nodded. 

"  Eight.  Portrait  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  taken  while  she  was 
a  guest  at  Starminster.  We  keep  the  room  she  slept  in  unoc- 
cupied and  sacred  in  case  any  royalties  should  happen  to  pay 
us  a  visit;  and  they  do  so  occasionally.  Portrait  of  Her  Maj- 
esty the  Queen,  '  presented  by  Victoria  Regina  to  the  Most 
Honorable  the  Earl  of  Starminster.'  That's  the  guv'nor,  you 
know." 

He  went  through  the  whole  in  the  lightest  and  highest  of 
spirits,  and  had  the  stick  still  in  liis  hand  pointing  to  different 
objects  when  the  other  ladies  came  down  the  stairs.  Lyra  had 
stood  in  front  of  each  picture  and  curio,  her  hands  clasped  be- 
hind her,  her  head  thrown  back,  unconscious  of  the  intent 
gaze  of  his  eyes  which  sought  her  face  as  often  as  they  could ; 
unconscious,  alas!  of  the  hungry  look  in  them — the  expres- 
sion of  Love's  hunger  which  dwells  in  the  eyes  of  the  man  who 
looks  at  the  woman  he  loves. 

"  What  a  number  of  famous  persons!"  she  said,  dreamily. 

"Aren't  they?"  he  assented.  "It's  true  that  most  of 
them  are  more  famous  for  their  vices  than  their  virtues;  for 
instance,  that  gentleman  in  the  suit  of  armor  was  a  robber; 
the  lady  next  him — well,  perhaps  I'd  better  pass  her  over;  but 
the  next  gentleman — that  one  in  the  satin  tunic — spent  most 
of  his  days  and  all  his  nights  in  gambling;  that  one — the 
dueling  Starminster — had  a  private  graveyard  of  his  own; 
that  pretty  little  sword  ran  through  six  friends  in  private 
quarrels;  the  lady  to  the  left  of  him  bolted  with  her  dearest 
friend's  husband;  and  the  youth  next  her  turned  pirate  and 


ONCE    I1T    A    LIFE.  193 

was,  I  believe,  called  the  scourge  of  the  ocean.     Take  us  all 
together,  we  are  a  nice  and  eminently  immoral  family.'* 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE  earl,  coming  down  the  stairs,  heard  the  last  word. 

"  Dane  has  been  going  through  the  portraits,  I  perceive, 
Miss  Chester/'  he  said,  with  a  smile.  "  I  am  afraid  you 
haven't  formed  a  very  high  estimate  of  us;  but  Dane  is  a  biased 
cicerone.  He  always  contrives  to  pass  over  the  respectable 
members  of  the  race." 

"  It  doesn't  give  me  much  trouble,"  said  Dane,  cheerfully. 
"  There  are  so  few." 

The  second  bell  rang  and  the  earl  gave  his  arm  to  Mrs. 
Leslie. 

"  Will  you  take  charge  of  Lady  Theodosia,  Mr.  Fanshawe," 
he  said;  and  so  Lyra  fell  to  Lord  Dane. 

The  dining-room  at  Starminster  was,  so  said  the  authorities 
on  decoration,  rather  heavy,  but  if  so,  it  owed  its  somberness 
to  carved  oak,  which  had  scarcely  it  equal  in  England.  Lady 
Theodosia  was  proud  of  her  oak  at  Castle  Towers,  but  even 
she  was  fain  to  admit  that  the  Starminster  paneling  carried 
the  palm.  A  soft  light  from  delicately  shaded  candles  fell 
upon  the  glistening  wood  and  the  massive  plate  and  embroid- 
ered sixteenth-century  hangings.  A  butler,  stately  and  sol- 
emn as  a  bishop,  officered  three  gigantic  footmen  in  the  claret 
and  yellow  livery;  huge  palms,  like  those  in  the  hall,  stood  on 
the  hearth  before  the  great  mantel-piece,  built  up  tier  upon 
tier  of  carven  oak;  a  dozen  priceless  old  masters  hung  on  the 
walls,  the  deep  yet  vivid  coloring  of  the  pictures  contrasting 
finely  with  the  mellow  brown  of  the  oak. 

It  seemed  to  Lyra,  as  she  entered  the  room  on  Lord  Dane's 
arm,  that  modern  persons  in  their  modern  costumes  were 
out  of  place  in  such  an  apartment,  in  which  only  powdered 
hair,  satin  doublets  and  silk  stockings  would  be  appropriate. 

The  footmen  moved  to  and  fro  with  noiseless  deftness,  the 
butler's  voice  never  rose  above  a  respectful  whisper,  but  Lord 
Dane  seemed  as  light-hearted  and  boyish  in  the  midst  of  the 
patrician  somberness  as  if  he  were  up  the  valley  fishing  or  eat- 
ing his  lunch  behind  a  clump  of  rock. 

He  did  most  of  the  talking,  bu/;  though  he  said  very  little 
directly  to  her,  Lyra  felt  that  he  was  not  forgetting  her. 
Once  or  twice  she  declined  the  dishes  the  footman  brought 
her,  and  on  the  second  occasion  Lord  Dane  held  up  his  hand 

and  signed  the  man  to  stop 
1 


194  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

"  Better  try  this/'  he  said,  quietly.  "It  is  better  than  it 
looks;  and,  it's  an  entree  we  are  rather  good  at.  Here,  let  me 
help  you;  may  I?"  and  he  helped  her  with  his  own  hand. 

Every  now  and  then  the  earl  addressed  a  remark  to  her — a 
remark  of  the  simplest  character,  and  his  deep,  thoughtful 
eyes  rested  upon  her  with  a  kindly  regard  while  he  spoke  and 
she  answered.  It  was  the  first  "  great  "  man  Lyra  had  met, 
and  she  was  deeply  interested  in  watching  and  listening  tc 
him.  To  the  ladies,  one  and  all,  his  manner  was  delight;  c 
perfect.  He  seemed  to  tender  them  a  willing,  respectful  hom- 
age of  which  this  generation  is  apparently  incapable.  If  Lady 
Theodosia  or  Mrs.  Leslie  spoke,  he  bent  forward  with  an  ex- 
pression of  profound  attention  on  his  face  and  in  his  eyes, 
which  never  wandered  while  they  were  speaking.  To  Mr. 
Fanshawe  he  had  not  much  to  say,  but  he  listened  to  that 
gentleman  with  evident  interest. 

"  You  and  Lady  Theodosia  must  be  making  Castle  Towers 
into  a  laborers'  '  earthly  paradise,'  "  he  said.  "  I  hope  they 
will  be  satisfied."  He  smiled  gravely,  doubtfully.  "They 
tell  me  that  the  more  prosperous  the  working-man  becomes, 
the  more  radical  he  grows." 

"  That's  human  nature,"  said  Lord  Dane;  "  the  more  we 
have  the  more  we  want.  Some  of  these  days  Dosie  will  find 
the  house  besieged  by  a  mob  of  her  petted  peasantry.  '  Petted 
peasantry  '  wouldn't  be  a  bad  phrase  on  a  platform,  would  it, 
sir?" 

The  earl  smiled  indulgently. 

"  You  know  that  I  have  long  been  impressed  by  the  convio- 
tion  that  you  are  a  born  orator,  Dane,"  he  said. 

Lord  Dane  made  a  grimace. 

"  Not  I,  sir;  I  couldn't  utter  three  consecutive  sentences.  I 
should  get  stage-fright  and  break  down.  But  what  was  I  say- 
ing? Oh!  that  some  day  Dosie  will  find  herself  surrounded  by 
a  mob  clamoring  for  a  division  of  the  property.  Then  she'!7 
be  sorry  she  has  been  so  generous. " 

Lady  Theodosia  smiled. 

"  When  that  day  comes,  we  shall  know  how  to  protect  our- 
selves/' she  said.  "  Mrs.  Leslie  and  Lyra  and  I  will  take  the 
weapons  from  the  armory  and  make  a  good  fight  of  it,  won't 
we,  Lyra?" 

"  Trust  you!"  said  Dane.  "  You  good  people  are  always 
ready  for  a  fight.  Do  you  think  you  could  fire  off  a  gun 
through  one  of  the  port-holes  of  the  castle,  Miss  Chester?" 

It  was  all  nonsense  they  were  talking,  but  it  was  pleasant 


OSTCE    Itf    A    LIFE.  195 

for  Lyra  to  feel  herself  included  in  and  taking  a  share  of  the 
nonsense. 

When  the  ladies  left  the  room,  the  earl  signed  to  the  two 
gentlemen  to  draw  nearer  to  him,  and  the  butler  brought  in 
the  famous  Starminster  port,  which,  however,  had  grown 
famous  in  vain,  so  far  as  Mr.  Fanshawe  was  concerned. 

"  No?  5fou  don't  drink  wine?"  said  the  earl.  "  So  many 
persons  are  total  abstainers  nowadays.  I  dare  say  it  is  all 
right;  indeed,  from  several  points  of  view,  I  am  sure  it  is  all 
right.  I  suppose,  for  instance,  that  if  our  forefathers  had 
drunk  less  port,  we,  their  children,  should  have  less  gout." 

He  sipped  as  he  spoke. 

Dane  laughed. 

"  The  worst  of  it  is  that  it's  the  wrong  people  who  abstain," 
he  said.  "  Mr.  Fanshawe,  for  instance — there  is  not  the  re- 
motest chance  of  his  drinking  to  excess." 

"  Who  knows?"  said  the  Reverend  Martin,  gravely. 
"  Every  one  might  say  that  he  was  safe — every  one  was  at  the 
beginning/' 

Dane  finished  his  glass — the  earl  smiled  blandly.  If  a  guest 
had  advocated  cannibalism  he,  the  host,  would  not  have  con- 
tradicted him. 

"  The  world  is  growing  very  good,"  he  said,  softly. 

"  It  is  time  it  did,  my  lord,"  responded  the  Reverend  Mar- 
tin, uncompromisingly.  Dane  laughed. 

"  We  shall  all  bud  wings  presently,"  he  said,  "  like  old 
bottled  port." 

The  Reverend  Martin  frowned  and  opened  his  lips  as  if 
about  to  rebuke  such  ill-timed  levity,  but  the  earl  rose  at  the 
moment. 

"  Let  us  join  the  ladies,"  he  said. 

Dane  went  to  the  window  opening  on  to  the  terrace. 

"  I'll  go  round  by  the  terrace  and  snatch  a  cigarette  on  the 
way,"  he  said.  He  stepped  out  on  the  ten-ace  and  lighted  his 
cigarette,  and  drew  a  long  breath,  as  an  actor  does  who  has 
just  left  the  stage  after  playing  a  difficult  part;  and,  indeed, 
it  had  been  a  difficult  part  for  him.  He  had  been  compelled 
to  sit  at  the  same  table  with  two  women,  one  of  whom  he 
loved  with  a  love  beyond  words  to  describe,  the  other  his  fut- 

11TG  Wife. 

The  very  touch  of  Lyra's  dress  thrilled  him,  the  regard  of 
her  lovely  eyes  went  tLrough.  him;  every  time  she  spoke  her 
voice  seemed  to  touch  a  sympathetic  chord  in  his  heart, 
was  the  one  woman  in  the  world  for  him— and  he  was  engaged 
to  Lady  Theodosia! 


196  ONCE    1ST    A    LIFE. 

He  strode  up  and  down  the  terrace,  gnawing  at  his  cigarette 
rather  than  smoking  it,  then  he  flung  it  away  with  a  kind  of 
groan,  and  went  toward  the  drawing-room  window.  It  was 
open,  and  a  slim  figure  in  a  dark  dress  stood  beside  it.  His 
heart  leaped,  for  he  recognized  Lyra. 

"  I  promised  you  a  moon  to  drive  home  by,  and  there  it  is, 
you  see,"  he  said. 

She  started  slightly,  for  she  had  not  heard  his  step.  Lady 
Theodosia  was  at  the  piano,  and  the  music  floated  out  to 
them.  He  stood  and  listened  for  a  moment. 

"  How  well  Lady  Theodosia  plays!"  said  Lyra,  warmly. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  absently;  "  she  does  everything  •well."  He 
took  out  his  cigar-case.  "  May  I?  Won't  you  come  out  a 
little  further?  You  can  see  the  river  from  the  edge  of  the 
terrace.  There  are  trout  in  it — " 

He  stopped  and  bit  his  cigar  viciously. 

Lyra  leaned  on  the  stone  balustrade  and  looked  dreamily  on 
the  moonlit  plain. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  after  awhile,  "  are  you  quite  happy — 
comfortable?" 

"  At  Castle  Towers?"  she  said.  "  Quite — oh,  quite.  Both 
Lady  Theodosia  and  Mrs.  Leslie  are  very,  very  kind  to  me." 

"  Kind!"  he  echoed,  almost  gruffly.  "Of  course  they 
would  be  kind.  But — but  are  you  sure  you  are  happy?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  gently;  "as  happy  as  I  should  be  any- 
where. I — I  have  had  trouble  lately." 

"  I  know,"  he  said. 

"Ah,  no!"  she  thought,  "you  do  not  know,  can  not 
guess;"  but  she  remained  silent. 

"  If  you  were  not  happy,"  he  went  on,  smoking  furiously, 
"  I  would — well,  I  would  find  some  other  place  for  you— 
He  stopped  and  flung  the  cigar  into  the  shadow  with  a  desper- 
ate violence.     "What  sports  of  fate  we  are!"  he  said,  half 
inaudibly.     "  Here  are  you  and  I — " 

She  turned  her  pale  face  to  him,  with  a  sad  look  of  reproach 
hi  it,  and  he  bit  his  lip. 

"I — I  beg  your  pardon.     I  forgot." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice;  "you  forgot.  But  will 
you — I  ask  you  very  earnestly,  Lord  Dane — will  you  remem- 
ber that  I  am  just  a  stranger  who  happens  to  be  Lady  Theo- 
dosia's  companion,  and  that  you  need  only  be  just  civil  to  her?" 

"  I'll  try  and  remember,"  he  said,  audibly;  but,  inaudibly, 
he  added:  "  But  it  will  be  darned  hard!" 

Mrs.  Leslie  stepped  through  the  open  window. 

"  Are  you  there,  Lord  Done?"   she  said.     "  Please  to  re- 


ONCE    IK    A    LIFE,  197 

member  that  you  are  going  to  drive  us  home,  and  that  the 
moon  will  not  last  very  long." 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  will!"  he  said,  confidently. 

"  Oh,  no,  it  won't!"  she  retorted.  "  I  know  that  kind  of 
moon.  It  will  drop  down  in  an  hour  or  two  and  leave  a  Cim- 
merian darkness  behind  it.  I  think  we  should  like  to  start 
now." 

"  All  right,"  he  said,  promptly;  and  he  took  a  whistle  from 
his  pocket  and  blew  it. 

"  Bring  round  the  drag,"  he  said  to  the  groom  who  ap- 
peared. 

"  I  shall  not  see  the  moon  from  Starminster  terrace  again 
for  some  time,"  he  said  to  Lyra. 

"  No?"  she  said,  with  faint  surprise. 

"  No,"  he  said,  almost  sullenly.  "  I  am  going  north 
shortly.  I  shall  spend  the  Christmas  in  Africa,  the  Easter  in 
— Lord  knows  where!" 

He  glanced  down  at  her  face,  upon  which  the  moonlight 
was  falling.  It  was  sad,  but  resigned. 

"  But  who  cares?"  he  said,  recklessly. 

"  Lady  Theodosia,"  Lyra  murmured. 

He  laughed. 

"  Dosie!  She  care?  Not  while  she  has  her  parish,  and  her 
missionaries,  and  the  Reverend  Martin — " 

"  Oh,  hush!"  said  Lyra. 

He  laughed  again. 

"It's  true,"  he  said.  "  Lord,  what  a  game  of  cross-pur- 
poses life  is." 

Mrs.  Leslie,  clad  in  her  out-door  things,  came  out  again, 
and  Lyra  went  into  the  house. 

When  she  came  down-stairs  the  break  was  at  the  door,  and 
Lord  Dane  was  in  his  driver's  perch.  The  earl  stood  on  the 
terrace,  bareheaded,  taking  leave  of  them  with  his  old-world 
courtesy. 

"  Gently,  Dane,  this  drive,"  he  said.  "  Dosie,  are  you  sure 
you  are  well  wrapped  up?  Mr.  Fanshawe,  it  is  useless  to  offer 
you  a  cigar,  I  know.  Mrs.  Leslie,  I  trust  you  will  not  catch 
cold.  Where  are  you  going  to  sit,  my  dear?" 

This  query  was  addressed  to  Lyra,  who  stood  a  little  apart, 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  moon. 

"  Anywhere,  my  lord,"  she  said. 

"  Give  Miss  Chester  a  hand  up  here,  father,"  said  Lord 
Dane,  in  a  determined  voice. 

"  She  will  be  warmer  inside,'   said  Mrs.  Leslie. 


198  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

"  Oh,  there  are  plenty  of  wraps  up  here,"  said  Dane,  in  a 
would-be  careless  tone. 

Lyra  hung  back,  the  earl  stood  waiting,  and  Lord  Dane's 
hand  was  extended. 

"  I  believe  you  are  afraid,"  said  Lady  Theodosia,  with  a 
laugh. 

Lyra  put  her  foot  on  the  step,  and  disregarding  Lord  Dane's 
hand,  sprung  up. 

"  That's  right,"  he  murmured.  "  Hold  on  a  minute,"  to 
the  groom,  who  literally  seemed  to  hang  on  to  the  fretting, 
impatient  horses.  "  Now,  just  get  quite  comfortable,"  he 
said  to  Lyra,  and  he  folded  a  wrap  across  her  knees.  "  Eight? 
All  right,  Parkins,  let  them  go." 

The  horses  sprung  forward,  and  in  a  moment  or  two  Star- 
minster,  with  all  its  gleaming  lights,  was  left  behind. 

I$ra  drew  a  long  breath,  and  looked  round  her. 

"  It  is  even  more  beautiful  in  the  moonlight,"  she  said, 
softly. 

"  Is  it?"  he  responded.  "  I  wish  we  were  going  to  drive 
for  a  week,  a  month." 

As  he  spoke  a  deer — the  woods  were  full  of  them — darted 
from  the  shadow  of  the  trees  right  across  the  road. 

The  near  horse  started  and  rose  on  its  hind  legs,  then,  as  the 
whip  cut  it,  darted  forward.  Its  mate,  as  much  alarmed  by 
its  companion's  conduct  as  by  the  deer,  followed  suit,  the 
wagonette  swayed  to  and  fro,  then  seemed  to  rush  forward  as 
if  drawn  by  an  express. 

Dane  got  a  good  grip  of  the  reins,  and  leaned  far  back  in 
the  effort  to  pull  up  the  frightened  horses.  Then,  as  the  effort 
jbiled  and  the  wagonette  began  to  sway  again,  he  leaned  for- 
ward and  looked  down. 

"  Is  anything  the  matter?"  asked  Lyra,  quietly. 

He  glanced  at  the  beautiful  face  uplifted  to  his. 

"  Are  you  afraid?"  he  asked. 

"  No,  not  in  the  least,"  she  answered  as  quietly  as  before. 

"  That's  all  right,"  he  said,  between  his  teeth,  "  because 
the  off  trace  has  broken  and  these  beasts  have  bolted.  Aren't 
you  going  to  scream?" 

"No;  I  shall  not  scream,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THERE  is  not,  probably,  a  better  horseman,  a  cooler  and 
more  expert  whip  in  England  than  Dane.  He  has  a  hand  that 
can  be,  as  occasion  requires,  as  soft  as  velvet  or  as  hard  as 


OKCE    IN    A    LIFE.  ^99 

gteel;  and  his  nerves  are  completely  under  control.  Given  a 
goodish  road,  with  no  nasty  turns  or  corners,  a  pan-  of  bolting 
horses,  well  and  strongly  harnessed,  would  not  ordinarily 
trouble  him  in  the  least;  but  to-night  the  conditions  are 
scarcely  fair. 

He  has  a  pair  of  young,  high-fettled,  underworked  horses,  a 
light  wagonette  with  three  women  in  it — and  a  broken  trace. 

The  road,  though  straight  for  a  mile,  is  narrow  and  edged 
with  trees,  and  there  is  the  not  too  broad  gate-way  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  hiltt 

Dane  has  a  great  belief  in  the  influence  of  the  human  voice 
over  the  equine  temper,  and  when  he  is  out  riding  or  driving 
alone,  is  wont  to  converse  pretty  freely  with  his  horse. 

Sometimes  a  quiet  "  Now,  then,  old  lady!"  will  do  more 
in  the  way  of  correction  or  soothing  than  any  amount  of 
whip;  so  now,  as  he  gets  a  tight  grip  of  the  reins  and  brings  a 
steady,  iron-like  pressure  to  bear  upon  the  horses,  he  speaks  a 
few  words  quietly  and  remonstratingly. 

"  Gently,  my  dears — gently!  What's  the  matter,  old  man? 
No,  hurry,  Peter.  Steady!" 

But  while  he  is  talking,  the  broken  trace  is  skipping  along 
the  ground  and  slapping  like  a  thick-thonged  whip  against 
Peter's  side,  and  Peter  declines  to  listen  to  reason,  and  he  and 
his  companion  race  madly  along,  the  trees  flying  by  as  they  fly 
by  the  windows  of  the  Scotch  express. 

For  a  moment  or  two  there  is  a  dead  silence;  then  Mrs. 
Leslie  utters  a  faint  cry  and  rises,  clutching  the  back  of  the 
wagonette. 

"  Oh,  Lord  Dane,  they  have  run  away!"  she  gasps, 

Though  Dane  does  not  turn  his  head,  he  sees  her. 

"  I  know  that,"  he  says.  "  Sit  down  at  once,  and  keep 
quiet." 

And  there  is  the  grim  sternness  in  his  voice  which  comes 
into  that  of  the  man  who  holds  the  lives  of  others — and  women 
— in  his  hands. 

Mrs.  Leslie  sinks  into  her  seat,  and  grips  Lady  Theodosia's 
arm. 

"  We  shall  be  killed!"  she  says,  in  a  tone  of  despair. 

Lady  Theodosia,  very  pale,  but  with  her  lips  tightly  closed, 
as  if  she  would  rather  die  than  call  out,  glances  at  her,  and 
then  at  Martin  Fanshawe. 

"We  shall  be  all  right;  Dane  will  stop  them  presently," 
she  says,  in  a  low  voice.  "  He  is  very  strong." 

"  A  trace  has  broken,"  says  Martin  Fanshawe, 


300  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

He,  too,  is  rather  pale,  but  there  is  no  look  of  fear  in  his 
eyes. 

"  Can  you  help  him?"  suggested  Lady  Theodosia. 

Martin  Fanshawe  leans  forward  to  Dane. 

"  Can  I  do  any  tiling,  Lord  Dane?"  he  asks,  quietly. 

"  Yes/'  replies  Dane.  "  Keep  the  ladies  in  their  seats; 
keep  them  there  whatever  happens.  But  we  shall  be  all  right 
directly." 

Lyra  says  not  a  word.  She  is  pale  also;  but  she  looks  down 
at  the  mad,  tearing  horses  with  a  bright  and  steady  eye.  Faith 
will  move  mountains,  and  her  faith  in  Dane  is  strong  enough 
to  dispel  all  fear.  Now  and  again  she  glances  at  his  face, 
with  its  set  lips  and  stern  eyes,  with  its  jowl  squared  by  the 
tightly  set  teeth;  and  as  she  looks  almost  loses  sense  of  their 
common  peril.  Strength,  courage,  these  are  the  qualities 
women  love  in  men;  and  strength  and  courage  are  personified 
in  the  man  who  sits  beside  her,  keeping  the  grip  of  a  Hercu- 
les on  the  terror-stricken  horses. 

Down  the  hill  they  rush,  the  gravel  flying  from  under  their 
hoofs,  their  breath  rising,  like  steam  in  the  moonlight,  from 
their  distended  nostrils.  How  much  longer  will  he  be  able  to 
keep  them  straight?  she  asks  herself,  not  in  a  paroxysm  of 
terror,  but  with  a  strange  sense  of  calmness  almost  amounting 
to  indifference. 

What  will  happen?  Will  the  carriage,  which  is  swaying  like 
a  ship  anchored  in  a  heavy  sea,  strike  the  trunk  of  one  of  the 
trees,  or  will  the  horses  fall?  It  is  almost  as  if  she  had  lost 
all  sense  of  her  own  share  in  the  common  risk,  as  if  she  were 
merely  playing  the  part  of  a  safe  though  interested  spectator. 

As  they  approach  the  narrow  gate- way  and  that  awkward 
bend  in  the  road,  he  glances  at  her,  a  swift,  sudden  glance, 
and  says: 

"  Are  you  holding  on  tight?" 

"Yes,"  she  replies  quietly,  and,  as  he  notices,  without  ? 
quiver  or  tremor  in  her  voice. 

"  That's  right.  Stick  on,  whatever  happens,  unless  I  tell 
you  to  jump." 

"  Yes,"  she  responds,  obediently. 

"  This  is  almost  as  bad  as  the  Taw  at  spring  flood,"  he 
murmurs.  "  Do  you  remember?" 

The  color  comes  into  her  face,  but  she  does  not  reply.  Does 
she  remember?  Is  it  likely  that  she  has  forgotten,  will  ever 
forget?" 

"  Look  round  and  tell  me  if  they  are  all  sitting  down,"  he 
says,  presently. 


0*TCE    m    A    LIFE.  201 

She  looks  over  her  shoulder.  Mrs.  Leslie  is  gripping  the 
seat,  Lady  Theodosia  is  holding  on  with  one  hand,  and,  yes, 
Mr.  Martin  Fanshawe  has  hold  of  the  other. 

"  They  are  quite  still  and  sitting  down." 

"  That's  all  right/'  he  says,  with  his  favorite  formula. 
"  Now,  if  I  can  keep  them  straight  through  this  gate — if 
they  don't  shy.  Can  you  do  something  if  I  want  you  to, 
Lyra?" 

Even  in  that  moment  of  deadly  peril  she  notices  that  he  calls 
her  by  her  Christian  name,  and  it  makes  her  heart  bound. 

"  I  will  try,"  she  answers,  quietly. 

"  Right.  Take  the  whip  out  from  the  socket  behind  me;  I 
can't  spare  a  hand.  When  I  say  '  Now/  give  the  off  horse — 
the  right-hand  one,  you  know — " 

"  I  know." 

"  Give  him  a  good  cut  from  the  outside.  I  want  to  keep 
him  close  to  the  other,  so  that  he  may  clear  the  gate-posts — 
see?" 

"  I  see,"  she  says,  as  calmly  as  even  he  could  desire,  and 
she  raises  the  whip  in  readiness. 

They  near  the  gate,  and  Mrs.  Leslie  utters  a  faint  moan. 

"  The  gate!"  she  gasps.     "  We  shall  overturn  there!" 

Dane  sets  his  lips  tightly,  and  gets  a  renewed  grip  of  the 
reins. 

"  Ready?"  he  asks  between  his  teeth.     "  Now,  then!" 

Lyra  has  been  mentally  rehearsing  since  she  received  her 
orders,  and,  with  a  very  fair  imitation  of  her  master,  she 
swings  the  whip  and  swipes  the  off  horse  across  the  back  from 
right  to  left.  The  terrified  animal  instinctively  sweeps  on  to 
the  pole,  and  the  pair  carry  the  carriage  clear  of  the  posts. 

"  Bravo!"  he  says,  almost  inaudibly.  "  What  pluck  you've 
got!  You've  saved  us  that  time.  Hold  on  tight,  and  I'll 
have  them  in  hand  in  another  minute  or  two.  Don't  be 
afraid. n 

The  few  simple  words  of  praise  make  her  heart  throb  with 
happiness  and  pride.  As  far  as  she  is  concerned,  the  horses 
may  run  on  till  this  time  to-morrow  night,  may  race  on  for- 
ever. Danger,  death  may  be  near,  but  all  sense  of  it  is  swal- 
lowed up  in  the  thrill  those  words  of  his  have  sent  through 
her  veins. 

"  I  am  not  afraid,"  she  says;  then,  in  justice,  she  adds, 
"  nor  are  the  others,  excepting,  perhaps,  Mrs.  Leslie,  and  she 
is  only  a  little—  Oh,  look  there!"  she  breaks  off.^ 

Right  ahead  of  them,  some  way  across  the  road,  is  an  empty 


202  ONCE    IH    A    LIFE. 

wagon.  The  horse  is  out,  and  grazing  by  the  hedge.  The 
driver  has  either  left  the  cart  or  is  asleep  inside. 

"  That  floors  it/'  he  says,  between  his  teeth.  "  There  is 
only  just  room  to  pass,  if  the  horses  were  going  quietly,  with 
the  harness  all  sound.  Now  listen,"  he  goes  on,  quickly  but 
quietly:  "  I  sha'n't  try  to  pass.  I'm  going  to  turn  'em — if  I 
can — up  that  bank,  in  the  hope  that  the  pole  will  break.  Sit 
tight  unless  I  tell  you  to  jump."  Then  he  says,  loud  enough 
to  be  heard  by  the  others:  "  Sit  still,  and  don't  be  afraid." 

They  near  the  wagon.  At  the  sound  of  the  tearing  horses, 
a  man,  evidently  startled  from  sleep,  opens  the  tilt  cover  and 
stares  at  them,  then  leaps  out,  but  stands,  hesitating,  con- 
fused, and  afraid. 

"Don't  touch  them!"  shouts  Dane,  quite  unnecessarily; 
and  as  he  speaks,  with  a  tremendous  tug  and  pressure  he 
turns  the  horses  toward  the  bank. 

If  the  reins  hold  they  must  go!  The  reins  do  hold,  and, 
blundering,  they  rush  and  stumble  up  the  slope  and  fall  in  a 
confused  heap  of  horses  and  harness  into  the  ditch.  The 
carriage  sways.  If  the  pole  will  only  break,  it  will  keep  up- 
right after  all;  but,  unfortunately,  the  pole  is  a  good  one, 
and  stands  the  strain,  and  the  next  moment  the  wagonette, 
which  seems  like  an  empty  match-box,  for  lightness,  topples 
over. 

Just  as  it  goes,  Dane  says,  swiftly,  sharply:  "Jump!"  and 
Lyra,  as  if  every  muscle  were  waiting  on  his  command,  obeys. 

She  stumbles  forward  on  her  knees,  but  instantly  regains  her 
feet  and  looks  round.  Lord  Dane  has  already  unstrapped  the 
other  trace,  and  is  getting  the  horses  clear  of  the  pole.  He 
glances  at  her  with  a  quick,  apprehensive  look;  then,  seeing 
that  she  is  unhurt,  nods  and  resumes  his  task. 

Then  Lyra  looks  for  the  rest. 

Still  in  the  wagonette,  and  clinging  like  grim  death,  is  Mrs. 
Leslie,  evidently  safe  and  uninjured;  but  a  few  yards  off,  on 
the  road,  lies  Mr.  Martin  Fanshawe,  and  he  lies  very  still  and 
quiet.  Beside  him,  on  one  knee,  is  Lady  Theodosia,  bending 
over  him  with  frightened  face. 

Lyra  goes  quickly  down  the  bank  to  them. 

"Oh!  is  he  hurt?"  she  asks,  anxiously. 

But  Lady  Theodosia  does  not  seem  to  hear  her,  does  not 
even  remove  her  eyes  from  the  clergyman's  white  face. 

Lyra  kneels  down  on  th^  other  side  of  him. 

""Is  he  hurt?"  she  sayt,  again.  "  Did  he  faU  out?  What 
shall  we  do?"  and  she  looks  round  helplessly. 

Lord  Dane,  with  language  quite  unfit  for  publication,  but 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  203 

with  a  certain  coolness,  is  endeavoring  to  make  the  alarmed 
and  conscience-stricken  carter  of  some  use,  and  between  them 
they  have  got  the  horses  on  their  feet. 

"  Now  hold  'em  tight,  and  lead  them  out  of  sight  of  the 
carriage.  Don't  look  like  a  boiled  turnip,  you  blockhead!  Do 
you  think  they  are  going  to  eat  you?  Whoa,  Peter!'' 

Then  he  lifts  Mrs.  Leslie  out  of  the  wagonette,  and  sets  her 
on  her  feet  as  he  has  done  the  horses. 

"  You're  all  right,"  he  says,  cheerfully;  "  you  are  indeed; 
but  I'm  afraid  they've  come  to  grief  over  there.  Don't  you 
come;  you  sit  still  for  a  few  minutes.  What  is  the  matter?" 
he  asks,  bending  over  the  prostrate  man.  "  Here,  let  me  un- 
fasten his  collar,"  and  he,  too,  kneels. 

But  with  a  sharp,  sudden  gesture  Lady  Theodosia  appears 
to  be  conscious  of  their  presence.  With  one  hand  she  lifts  the 
head  of  the  unconscious  man,  and  with  the  other  wards  off 
Dane's  proffered  assistance. 

"  No,  no!"  she  says,  in  a  dry,  trembling  voice.  "  Don't 
touch  him!  I  will  do  it!  I  will  do  it!" 

Then  as  she  unfastens  his  collar,  and  she  sees  a  splash  of 
blood  on  her  hand  where  it  has  touched  the  back  of  his  head, 
she  utters  a  low  cry  of  terror  and  anguish. 

"  He  is  killed!  he  is  killed!"  she  wails;  "  he  is  dead!  Oh, 
Martin,  Martin!" 

Lord  Dane  starts  and  draws  back,  gazing  at  her  sternly. 

"  Dosie!"  he  says,  warningly. 

"  Is  he  dead?  Tell  me!"  she  pants,  disregarding  his  tone 
and  manner,  and  seeming  utterly  reckless  in  her  terror  and 
grief.  "Tell  me  the  truth!  See,  he  doesn't  breathe!" 

"  Hush!  hush!"  he  says,  his  lips  tightly  set.  "  He  is  not 
dead.  Collect  yourself." 

"  Are  you  sure?"  she  demands,  still  with  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  face  that  rests  on  her  arm — is  pressed,  indeed,  to  her  pal- 
pitating bosom.  "  You  are  not  deceiving  me?  Oh,  Dane, 
tell  me  the  truth!  I — I  love  him!" 

Dane's  face  grows  white;  he  lays  his  hand  on  her  shoulder 
and  grasps  it,  not  cruelly,  but  firmly. 

"  There  is  no  need  to  tell  us  that,"  he  says,  sternly,  with 
grim  irony.  "  Control  yourself." 

Then  he  turns  to  Lyra  without  looking  at  her. 

"  Soak  this  handkerchief  in  the  ditch,"  lie  says,  grimly,  in 
the  tone  of  a  man  who  knows  that  he  will  meet  with  prompt 
obedience. 

She  takes  the  handkerchief  and  springs  to  the  ditch;  but 


204  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

when  she  comes  back,  Lady  Theodosia  takes  it  from  her  hand, 
and  herself  bathes  Martin  Fanshawe's  forehead. 

Dane  has  got  him  upon  his  knee,  and  has  examined  the 
wound  at  the  back  of  his  head. 

"  He  struck  a  stone,"  he  says,  more  to  himself  than  the 
others. 

"  Yes,"  wails  Lady  Theodosia;  "  it  was  in  trying  to  save 
me!  It  is  my  fault!  I  have  killed  him!  Oh,  Martin,  Mar- 
tin!" 

Lord  Dane  puts  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  again. 

"  Be  silent!"  he  says,  in  a  low,  stern  voice.  "  You  are  not 
alone,  Theodosia." 

But  she  does  not  heed  him — seems,  indeed,  scarcely  to  hear 
him,  or,  at  any  rate,  understand. 

"  He  tried  to  hold  me,  to  keep  me  from  falling  out,"  she 
says,  hi  the  same  half -unconscious  moan.  "It  is  always  of 
others  that  he  thinks  first,  never  of  himself.  There  is  no  one 
in  the  world  like  him —  Ah!" 

She  breaks  off  with  a  long,  trembling  breath  of  joy  and 
hope  as  Martin  Fanshawe  opens  his  eyes. 

Lord  Dane  nods  at  Lyra,  who  stands  pale  and  aghast,  simply 
overwhelmed  by  the  revelation  of  Lady  Theodosia  s  secret. 

"  Take  her  away,"  he  says,  huskily. 

"  Come  with  me,  Lady  Theodosia,"  she  says,  bending  over 
her.  "  He  is  all  right — see?" 

Lady  Theodosia  looks  up  at  her  with  wild  eyes,  as  if  she 
does  not  recognize  her  for  a  moment;  then  she  puts  her  hand 
to  her  brow,  looks  at  Dane — a  strange,  questioning  gaze,  then 
rises,  and,  resting  on  Lyra's  arm,  withdraws  a  few  paces,  but 
still  looking  over  her  shoulder  at  the  injured  man. 

"  Are  you  sure  he  is  recovering?"  .she  asks — demands, 
rather.  "  He  opened  his  eyes,  did  he  not?  It  was  not  my 
fancy?  Did  he  speak?" 

"  Not  yet,'r  says  Lyra;  "  but  I  don't  think  he  is  much 
hurt,  Lady  Theodosia/ 

"  How  do  you  know?  How  can  you  tell?"  retorts  Lady 
Theodosia,  in  a  tone  and  manner  so  unlike  her  ordinary  ones 
that  Lyra,  even  in  that  moment,  asks  herself  if  this  can  really 
be  the  same  woman,  the  calm,  self-possessed  Lady  Theodosia 
of  a  few  hours,  minutes  ago. 

"  Lord  Dane  is  helping  him  up;  he  is  standing  quite  well,5' 
she  says. 

Lady  Theodosia  by  a  glance  assures  herself  of  the  truth  of 
this  statement,  then  allows  Lyra  to  lead  her  to  the  bank.  She 
cits  down  and  holds  her  hand  over  her  face  for  a  moment  or 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  205 

two,  and  Lyra  sees  her  lips  move  as  if  in  prayer;  then  she  looks 
up. 

•'  What — what  have  I  said?"  she  asks,  in  a  whisper. 

Lyra  averts  her  eyes. 

"  Never  mind  now/'  she  replies,  soothingly.  "  You — you 
were  upset  and  frightened.  You  did  not  know  what  you  were 
saying." 

A  faint  flush  comes  into  Lady  Theodosia's  face. 

"  Tell  me  what  I  said,"  she  demands. 

Lyra's  face  grows  hot. 

"  Oh,  I  can  not!"  she  murmurs. 

Lady  Theodosia  looks  down  at  the  ground. 

"  Did — did  he  hear  me?"  she  asks. 

Lyra  is  silent  for  a  moment. 

"  Yes.     I — I  am  afraid  so." 

Lady  Theodosia's  face  grows  almost  as  red  as  Lyra's,  and 
she  sighs. 

"  I — I  thought  he  was  dead/'  she  says.  "  I — I  did  not  know 
he  could  hear;  but — but  it — it  would  have  been  all  the  same." 

"  I — I  thought  you  meant  Lord  Dane,"  says  Lyra.  "  Mr. 
Fanshawe  did  not  hear.  He  was  unconscious." 

Lady  Theodosia  draws  a  breath  of  relief. 

"  I  meant  Mar — Mr.  Fanshawe,"  she  says,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  Go  and  see  if  he  is  hurt,  and  come  and  tell  me.  Be  quick, 
please." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

LOED  DANE  and  Martin  Fanshawe  are  standing  a  little 
apart,  the  former  leaning  against  a  tree,  the  latter,  with  his 
hands  thrust  deep  in  his  pockets,  looking  straight  before  him. 

The  first  word  that  leaves  Martin  Fanshawe's  lips,  when  he 
can  speak,  is  Lady  Theodosia's  name. 

"  Lady  Theodosia!"  he  says.  "Is  she  hurt?  Where  IF 
she?" 

"  She  is  all  right.  Neither  she  nor  the  other  ladies  are 
hurt,"  replies  Dane,  with  a  slight  emphasis  on  "  the  other 
ladies." 

Martin  Fanshawe  draws  a  breath  of  relief,  very  much  as 
Lady  Theodosia  had  done. 

"  Thank  you/'  he  says,  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  thought  she 
fell.  I  remember — " 

"  She  says  you  saved  her,  somehow  or  other,"  remark^ 
Dane,  briefly. 


206  ONCE    Itf    A    LIFE. 

"  Did  I?  I  can  not  be  too  thankful  if  I  did/'  murmurs 
Martin  Fanshawe.  "  You  are  not  hurt,  I  hope,  Lord  Dane?" 

"  Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  says  Dane.  "  We  should  have  got 
through  the  performance  without  an  upset  if  it  had  not  been 
for  that  confouned  wagon." 

As  he  speaks  Lyra  comes  up. 

"Lady  Theodosia  wishes  to  know  if  Mr.  Fanshawe  is  bet 
ter,"  she  says,  with  downcast  eyes. 

Martin  Fanshawe  colors. 

"  Yes,  yes;  thank  you.  I  will  come  to  her;"  and  he  goes 
toward  her  as  quickly  as  he  can. 

Dane  stands  for  a  moment,  still  looking  before  him  in 
silence;  then  he  says: 

"  Nobody  has  asked  if  you  are  hurt,"  he  says,  with  a  side 
glance  at  her. 

It  seems  as  if  he  dared  not  look  her  straight  in  the  face,  lest 
she  should  read  the  deep  joy  of  freedom  that  glows  in  his 
eyes. 

"  There  is  no  need,"  she  says,  avoiding  his  eyes  as  he  avoids 
hers,  "  it  is  so  evident  that  I  am  quite  sound." 

He  looks  over  his  shoulder  at  the  group  behind  them. 

"  They  have  to  be  got  home  somehow,"  he  says. 

"  Why  should  we  not  drive?"  she  suggests.  "  The  horses 
are  quite  quiet  now,  are  they  not?" 

He  laughs  grimly. 

"  Quiet  as  two  dead  mice,"  he  says;  "  but  nothing  would 
induce  Mrs.  Leslie  to  get  into  that  wagonette  again,  even  if 
there  were  no  horses  to  it." 

"  Can  I  not  walk  on  to  Castle  Towers  and  send  a  carriage?" 

"  No,  you  can  not,"  he  retorts,  curtly.  "  As  you  appear 
to  be  the  only  one  who  has  not  lost  her  head,  you  must  stay 
and  look  after  them;  I  will  go  back  to  Star  mi  aster. "  He 
takes  a  step  or  two,  then  stops,  and  for  a  moment  looks  her 
full  in  the  eyes.  "  Lyra — Miss  Chester,  I  must  speak  to  yon 
to-night." 

She  does  not  answer,  and,  as  if  he  can  not  trust  himself  to 
say  another  word,  he  walks  toward  the  horses. 

She  sees  him  remove  all  the  harness,  excepting  the  head-stall 
and  bearing  reins,  from  one  of  them,  and  the  next  moment  he 
is  riding  it  barebacked  in  the  direction  of  the  Hall. 

"Good  gracious!"  exclaims  Mrs.  Leslie,  "what  is  Lord 
Dane  doing?" 

"  Going  for  a  carriage,"  explains  Lyra. 

"  Oh,  not  forme!  I  could  not  enter  anything  on  wheels 
again  to-night.  I  had  a  presentiment  something  was  going  to 


OKCE    IN    A    LIFE.  207 

happen  when  those  dreadful  horses  plunged  so  at  starting.  Is 
my  bonnet  straight?  I  feel  as  if  I  were  standing  on  my  head! 
How  provokingly  cool  and  tidy  you  look,  my  dear!  Poor  Mr. 
Fanshawe — I  wonder  whether  he  has  broken  any  bones!" 
Lyra  glances  over  to  the  bank  where  Lady  Theodosia  and  he 
are  sitting,  and  says  nothing.  "  I'll  walk  on;  I've  told  Theo- 
dosia I  would  do  so,"  says  Mrs.  Leslie.  "  No,  you  must  not 
come;  you  must  stay  with  Lady  Theodosia.  I  shall  be  quite 
safe.  Indeed,  I  would  rather  meet  fifty  tramps  and  footpads 
than  ride  behind  anything  on  four  legs  again  to-night.  Oh, 
dear!  why  is  it  people  take  a  delight  in  driving  wild  horses?" 
and,  vainly  endeavoring  to  "  settle  "  her  crushed  bonnet,  she 
walks  off  down  the  road. 

Lyra  does  not  join  the  other  two,  but  seats  herself  at  the 
foot  of  a  big  fir-tree  and  tries  to  think.  She  is  still  endeavor- 
ing to  realize  what  has  happened.  Lady  Theodosia's  frenzied, 
passionate  "  I  love  him!  I  love  him!"  is  still  ringing  in  her 
ears,  when  she  sees  a  carriage  and  pair  coming  quickly,  but 
steadily  enough,  down  the  road,  and  in  another  moment  Lord 
Dane  is  at  her  side. 

"  Get  them  in,"  he  says,  gravely,  as  if  she  and  he  were  in 
charge  of  a  pair  of  children  or  lunatics;  and  while  the  rest 
are  entering  the  carriage,  he  superintends  the  two  grooms 
whom  he  has  brought  in  the  work  of  setting  the  overturned 
carriage  on  its  wheels  and  reharnessing  the  horses.  Then  he 
gets  on  the  box  of  the  carriage,  and  the  coachman  drives  off. 

Scarcely  a  word  is  spoken  by  the  three  inside  on  the  way  to 
Castle  Towers.  Lady  Theodosia  leans  far  back  in  her  corner, 
her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  either  closed  or  fixed 
before  her  with  a  far-away  look.  Martin  Fanshawe,  his  im- 
pressive face  still  rather  pale,  his  usually  immaculate  collar 
crushed  and  blood-stained,  gazes  out  of  the  window  with  a 
grave,  perturbed  regard;  and  Lyra  leans  back  in  her  corner  as 
far  as  sne  can  go,  and  still  tries  to  realize  the  tremendous  pur- 
port of  the  scene  she  has  participated  in. 

When  they  reach  Castle  Towers,  Lady  Theodosia  alights, 
and  without  a  word  to  the  others,  walks  into  the  hall.  There 
she  stops,  and  addressing  Lyra,  says: 

"  Will  you  ask  Lord  Dane  if  he  will  come  to  me  in  the 
library?" 

At  the  library  door  she  pauses  and  looks  at  Martin  Fan- 
shawe, opens  her  lips  as  if  about  to  speak,  but  says  nothing, 
and  passes  in. 

"  In  the  library?  All  right,"  says  Dane,  in  response  to 
Lyra,  and  with  an  obviously  forced  carelessness.  "  Fanshawe, 


208  ONCE    I1T    A    LIFE. 

you  had  better  get  a  wash  and  something  to  drink.     I  will 
join  you  presently/' 

"  Thank  you,  no,"  says  Martin  Fanshawe;  "  but  I  will  wait 
A  little  while.  I  should  like  to  speak — I  have  something  I 
wish  to  say  to  you,  Lord  Dane." 

Dane  nods  and  enters  the  library.  As  he  closes  the  door 
behind  him,  Lady  Theodosia  rises  from  the  chair  into  which 
she  had  sunk,  and  stands  before  him.  She  is  very  pale,  and 
her  usually  firm  lips  quiver,  but  the  grave  eyes  meet  his  with 
a  steadfast,  unflinching  courage,  the  courage  of  a  good,  true 
woman  who  has  made  the  discovery  that  her  heart  has  played 
her  false. 

"  Dane,"  she  says,  and  her  voice,  though  low  and  tremu- 
lous, is  clear  and  distinct  enough,  "  I — I  think  you  know  what 
it  is  I  have  to  say,  to  confess." 

He  stands  regarding  her  silently,  with  something  like  pity, 
something  still  more  like  sympathy,  in  his  handsome  eyes,  and 
with  a  kind  of  admiration.  Yes,  this  little  woman  who  was 
to  have  been  his  wife  is  as  brave  as  a  red  Indian,  he  thinks. 

"  Dane/'  she  goes  on,  '*  you — you  heard  what  I  said  out  in 
the  road?" 

He  inclines  his  head. 

She  put  her  hands  to  her  lips  to  steady  them. 

"  I — I  was  scarcely  conscious  of  what  I  was  saying." 

"  I  know  that,"  he  says,  very  grimly. 

She  looks  up  at  him. 

"  Yes;  but— but  it  was  true/' 

"  I  know  that,  too,"  he  says,  with  a  nod. 

"  It  was  true.  It  is  shameful,  it  is  terrible,  but  it  is  true. 
Dane,  I  have  broken  faith  with  you.  I  have  been  false  to  you. 
I " — she  bites  her  lips — "  I  do  love  him.  But " — she  goes  on 
quickly,  desperately,  before  he  can  speak — "but  I  did  not 
know  it  till  to-night.  You  will  believe  that,  Dane?  You  will 
not  think  me  so  base,  so  unworthy,  so  treacherous,  as  I  should 
be  if  I  had  known  what — what  his  danger  and  my  terror  re- 
vealed to  me/' 

"  I  believe  you,  Dosie,"  he  says,  gently. 

She  regards  him  with  faint,  sad  surprise.  She  had  expected 
to  have  to  meet  his  reproaches,  perhaps  his  fury. 

"  And — and  you  forgive  me?  she  whispers,  almost  inaudi- 
bly. 

He  crosses  the  room  and  puts  his  arm  round  her,  and  looks 
down  into  her  sad,  ' '  good  ' '  eyes,  into  which  her  gentleness 
has  brought  the  sudden  tears. 

"  My  poor  Dosie!"  ho  says;  and  he  kisses  her  on  the  fore- 


OKCE    IN    A    LIFE.  209 

head— a  brother's,  u  father's  kiss — "  my  poor  little  Dosie!  Do 
you  think  I  wanted  you  to  say  all  this,  to  eat  humble  pie  and 
make  full  confession?  Why,  no.  I  saw  it  all,  understood  it 
all,  in  a  moment,  and — and  I  forgave  you  then.  Forgive  I" 
and  his  voice  is  full  of  sad  reproach.  "  For  God's  sake,  don't 
use  that  word!  I  need  your  forgiveness  quite  as  much — ever 
so  much  more — than  you  need  mine.  If  you  knew  all — " 

She  stops  him  with  a  gesture. 

"  I — I  think  I  have  long  guessed,  known  that  you  did  not 
love  me,  Dane,"  she  says. 

He  bites  his  lip,  and  looks  down  quite  as  penitently  as  she 
had  done.  It  was  his  turn  now. 

"  Yes;  I  felt  it.  But  I  did  not  know  that — that  there  was 
some  one  else.  There  is  some  one  else,  Dane?"  she  asks,  as- 
serts, rather,  in  a  very  low  voice. 

He  colors  swiftly  and  nods. 

"  There  is  Dosie,"  he  says.  "  Don't  ask  who  it  is — don't 
ask  anything.  I  can't  tell  you  yet;  but  I  will  presently — 
soon,  please  God !  I — I  think  you  will  be  surprised.  But  that's 
enough.  All  is  said  and  understood  between  us,  isn't  it?" 

"  Yes,"  she  says,  rather  sadly — for  what  woman  likes  to 
yield  up  the  man  who  has  been  counted  as  her  lover,  though 
she  loves  him  not,  nor  he  her? — "  yes.  I'm  afraid  the  earl — 

He  laughs. 

"  The  guv'nor  will  have  to  put  up  with  it,"  he  says.  "  Any- 
way, he  won't  expect  you  to  marry  me  when  you  are  in  love — 

Don't!"  she  murmurs,  hanging  her  head.  'You — you 
forget  that  he  " — of  course,  she  means  Martin  Fanshawe;  he 
is  the  "he"  for  the  rest  of  her  life— "  he  does  not— may 
not—" 

Dane  laughs  again. 

"  My  dear  Dosie,  the  poor  fellow  loves  the  very  ground  you 
tread  upon.  Why,  the  very  first  words  he  said,  when  he  came 
to,  were:  '  Lady  Theodosia!'  There!"  and  he  pats  her  on  the 
shoulder,  "  make  your  mind  easy.  It  will  all  come  right, 
please  God!  Now,  you  get  off  to  bed,  and  I'll  get  something 
to  drink,  and  make  for  home.  Good-night,  Dosie."  He  kisses 
her  again,  then  laughs.  "  I  say,  you've  forgotten  one  thing, 
he  says. 

"  Yes?  What  is  that?"  she  says,  lifting  her  still  shame- 
dimmed  eyes  to  his. 

"  You  haven't  offered  to  be  a  sister  to  me.  It  a  the  usual 
request  on  these  occasions,  isn't  it?" 

She  puts  her  arms  round  him  now,  and  standing  on  tiptoe, 
puts  her  trembling  lips  against  his  cheek. 


210  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

ei  Ah,  Dane,  dear,"  she  murmurs,  "  it  is  not  necessary! 
Dane,  you — you  have  been  very  good  to  me."  Her  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  "  I — I  thought  you  would  be  sure  to — to  swear 
at  me,  at  the  very  least." 

"  All  right,"  he  says,  cheerfully.  "  I'll  do  it  still,  if  it  will 
make  you  feel  easier  in  your  conscience.  But  if  I  do,  you  must 
swear  at  me  back  again,  for  I  deserve  it  quite  as  much  as  you 
do." 

At  Dane's  half-comical  words,  Theodosia  shakes  her  head, 
slips  from  his  arms,  and  goes  out  by  the  opposite  door,  and  he 
draws  himself  up,  gives  himself  a  shake,  and,  with  a  long 
breath,  returns  to  the  hall. 

The  Reverend  Martin  Fanshawe  is  pacing  up  and  down  the 
hall,  his  thin,  "intellectual"  hands  lightly  clasped  behind 
his  back,  his  face  pale  and  set. 

"  Come  in  here,"  says  Dane.     "  Or  let  us  go  outside,  eh?" 

They  go  on  to  the  terrace,  and  Dane  links  his  arm  in  the 
thin  but  muscular  one  of  the  young  parson;  but  Martin  Fan- 
shawe releases  himself. 

"  If — if  you  knew  what  I  have  to  say,  Lord  Dan'e,  I  am 
afraid  you  would  not  be  so  friendly." 

"  Oh!"  says  Dane,  cheerily,  "  think  so?" 

"  Lord  Dane,"  says  Martin,  facing  him  as  bravely  as  Theo- 
dosia had  done,  "  I  have  to  make  a  confession  to  you.  I  will 
do  so  in  the  fewest  possible  words;  and  then — then  I  will 
leave  myself  in  your  hands." 

Dane  smiles  grimly. 

"  No,  thanks.  You  would  be  too  large  a  baby  to  carry.  Or 
do  you  mean  that  you  want  to  cross  over  to  France  and  fight 
a  duel  with  me?  Beg  pardon,  though;  I  forgot — that's  a  lux- 
ury you  are  debarred  from.  My  dear  fellow,  you  can  spare 
yourself  your  confession.  You  love  Lady  Theodosia?" 

Martin  Fanshawe  starts  and  crimsons;  but  he  meets  his  com- 
panion's eyes  steadily  for  a  moment,  then  his  head  droops. 

"  Yes,  Lord  Dane,  I  love  her.     I  have  loved  her — " 

Dane  nods. 

"  Ever  since  you  first  saw  her — I  know." 

"  You  know?  Ah!  But,  Lord  Dane,  you  must  know  that 
— that  I  would  rather  have  died  than  reveal  that  love.  I  was 
going  away  from  here,  lest  some  unwary  look  or  word  of  mine 
should  betray  it.  I  had  wished  to  do  so — to  leave  here  as 
Boon  as  possible;  but — but  to-night  I  learned — "  He  stops; 
then  he  looks  Dane  straight  in  the  face.  "  Lord  Dane,  was  I 
still  unconscious — did  I  dream  that — that  I  heard  her  say — " 

Dane  puts  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  211 

"  You  had  better  ask  her  that  question,  my  dear  fellow," 
he  says. 

A  light,  a  joyous  light,  flashes  into  the  young  man's  grave 
eyes  and  his  breath  comes  fast. 

"  Then  it  was  true,"  he  murmurs.  Then,  aloud,  he  says: 
"  And — and  you  bid  me  go  to  her — you  give  ms  permission? 
Lord  Dane,  I — I  do  not  understand!" 

Dane  takes  out  his  cigar-case  and  lights  a  cigar. 
"  Sounds  rather  generous  and  Quixotic,  doesn't  it?"  h« 
says,  slowly.  "  Make  your  mind  easy,  my  dear  fellow;  I  am 
neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  I  don't,  as  a  rule — worse  luck 
forme! — yield  what  I  want  myself."  He  pauses,  and  then 
goes  on,  in  a  low  voice  and  slowly:  "  If  I  wanted  Dosie  as 
badly  as  you  do,  I  should  be  quite  ready  to  go  over  to  France 
with  you,  or  have  it  out  here  on  the  terrace,  with  or  without 
pistols.  Have  I  said  enough?" 

Martin  Fanshawe  gasps  in  silence  for  a  moment,  then  he 
holds  out  his  hand. 

"  I — I  think  I  understand,"  he  says;  "  but  I  want  to  think 
it  over,  to  realize  it.  It  seems  too  good  to  be  true. " 

"  Good  luck  always  does,"  remarks  Dane,  laconically. 
"  Yes,  you  go  home  and  bathe  your  head;  I  haven't  asked  yet 
whether  you've  broken  it  or  not,  but  I  don't  think  you  have. 
You  go  home  and  think  it  over,  and  to-morrow — well,  take 
my  advice,  and  ask  Lady  Theodosia  whether  you  are  still  off 
your  head,  or  really  heard  what  you  fancied  you  heard  her  say. 
There,  off  with  you!  Good-night." 

He  stands  and  watches  the  young  parson  as  he  strides  across 
the  lawn,  then  he  begins  to  pace  up  and  down,  smoking  furi- 
ously. 

Is  it  true  that  he  is  free,  that  the  shackles  have  fallen  from 
his  long-fettered  hands?  Free  to — to  tell  Lyra  that  he  still 
loves  her,  to  make  her  his  wife?  His  wife!  the  word  sendjs 
the  blood,  never  very  sluggish,  rushing  madly  through  his 
veins.  His  wife!  He  laughs  a  laugh  of  half-wild  exultation, 
and  stretches  out  his  arms  as  might  a  prisoner  from  whom  the 
jailer  has  just  knocked  off  the  chains.  Lyra— his  Lyra! 

He  leans  over  the  marble  rail  of  the  terrace  and  looks  put 
on  to  the  moonlit  gardens,  but  seeing  them  not.  It  is  a  slim, 
graceful  figure,  he  sees,  standing,  rod  in  hand,  beside  the 
stream  in  the  Taw  valley. 

A  shadow  falling  beside  him  startles  him  from  dream-It  ad. 
and  turning,  he  sees  a  figure— for  figure— passing  the  draw- 
ing-room window.  He  turns  and  strides  to  it,  and  calls  to 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

her.  She  starts  and  utters  a  faint  cry  of  alarm,  then  stands 
still,  but  as  if  ready  to  fly. 

"  Lyra,"  he  says;  and  quiet  as  his  voice  is,  there  is  a  subtle 
ring  of  joy  in  it.  "Lyra." 

She  does  not  move;  indeed,  she  seems  to  shrink  from  him, 
and  he  takes  her  hand  and  draws  her,  gently  but  irresistibly, 
out  on  to  the  terrace  beside  him.  He  holds  her  thus  for  a  mo- 
ment, looking  into  her  face,  waiting  for  her  downcast  eyes  to 
rise,  that  he  may  look  into  them,  into  the  soul  beneath. 

"  Lyra/'  he  says  at  last,  "  I  am  free — free!  But  you 
know  that;  you  heard  what  she  said.  You  know  it  all.  You 
know  how  I  love  you.  By  Heaven!"  his  voice  trembles,  "  I 
scarcely  know  whether  I  am  awake  or  dreaming.  As  he  said, 
it  seems  too  good  to  be  true.  Free!  Lyra,  do  you  love  me  a 
little?  Do  you  love  me  well  enough  to  be — my  wife?" 

She  stands  as  far  off  as  she  can  from  him,  her  heart  beating 
wildly  with  indescribable  joy,  with  indescribable  misery. 

He  looks  at  her,  his  eyes  "  hungry  with  love,"  half  amazed, 
half  confused  by  her  coldness.  Then,  as  if  unable  to  restrain 
himself  longer,  he  takes  her  other  hand  and  draws  her  to  him 
— so  close  to  him  that  her  face  rests  against  his,  and  she  can 
feel  the  tumultuous  beating  of  his  heart. 

"  My  dearest!  my  love!"  he  murmurs,  huskily,  for  in  such 
passion  as  his  the  voice  makes  no  soft  music;  "at  last,  at 
last!  Oh,  my  darling,  if  you  knew  how  I  have  suffered!  if  you 
knew  what  it  has  cost  me  to  be  true  and  honorable!  But  it 
has  all  come  right  at  last.  Forgive  me,  and  try  and  love  me 
a  little,  Lyra.  Speak  to  me,  dear,  speak  to  me.  Let  me  hear 
you  whisper,  *  I  love  you. '  Just  that.  Let  me  take  that 
home  with  me,  that  I  may  be  sure  I  am  awake,  and  that  it 
has  all  really  happened.  Lyra!"  he  breaks  off,  with  a  swift 
change  of  voice,  the  change  from  passionate  pleading,  avowal, 
to  sudden  fear,  dread. 

For,  instead  of  raising  her  face  to  his,  and  murmuring  her 
confession  of  responsive  love,  she  has  shrunk  away  from 
him,  has  somehow  or  other  drawn  at  arm's-length,  and  with 
her  palms  pressed  against  his  breast,  keeps  him  away  from  her. 

"Lyra,  what  is  it?    Come  to  me,  dearest." 

"  No,  no!"  she  pants,  white  to  the  lips,  her  eyes  full  of  an 
intense  agony,  an  intense  despair.  "  No,  no!  I — I  can  not 
— I — I  dare  not,  must  not!  Let  me  go!  Oh,  don't  speak 
again — not  a  word!  If — if  you  love  me  " — her  voice  breaks — 

let  me  go  without  another  word!  It  ip  more  than  I  can 
bear!  Oh,  I  can  not  bear  it!" 


ONCE    IK    A    LIFE.  213 

He  still  holds  her  hands  and  looks  down  at  her,  his  face  as 
white  as  hers,  his  eyes  full  of  stern  questioning. 

"  Lyra/'  he  says,  hoarsely,  "  have  I  been  living  in  a  fool's 
paradise?  Have  I  been  deceiving  myself?  I— God  help  me! 
— I  thought  you  loved  me.  That  day— you  remember— I 
could  have  been  sure.  Do  you  mean  that — that — I  was  mis- 
taken, that  you  did  not  care  for  me?" 

She  turns  her  eyes  away;  she  can  not  lie  to  that  extent,  can 
not  foreswear  sacred  love  so  basely. 

"  You  did  love  me,"  he  says,  with  a  sudden,  swift  return 
of  hope.  "  Why,  then — ah!"  He  stops,  and  draws  a  long 
breath  of  doubt  and  pain.  "  Do  you  mean  me  to  understand 
that — that  you  do  so  no  longer?  Is  that  the  reason  of  your 
coolness?  Speak  out.  For  God's  sake,  don't  beat  about  the 
bush!  Do  you  love  me  no  longer,  Lyra?" 

She  looks  round  piteously,  and  up  at  the  placid  moon,  that 
seems  to  smile  at  her  misery. 

"  Is  that  it?"  he  demands,  almost  fiercely. 

She  does  not  reply,  but  her  silence  is  answer  enough. 

He  drops  her  hands  and  turns  away,  that  she  may  not  see 
his  agony.  Then,  with  still  averted  face,  he  says: 

"  It — it  serves  me  right.  Yes,  I'm  rightly  punished.  I 
don't  wonder  at  it.  How  could  any  woman  go  on  loving  the 
man  who  behaved  as  I  behaved?  God!  what  a  cur  I  must 
have  seemed  that  day!  For  you  did  love  me  till — till  you 
heard  that  I  belonged  to  some  one  else.  And  now " — he 
laughs  bitterly — "  I  am  free,  and  it  is  too  late." 
Too  latef"  breaks  from  her  white  lips. 

But  it  is  of  her  own  mad  deed,  of  her  own  fetters,  she  is 
thinking — of  that  vile  marriage  in  the  ruined  church. 


more  to  himself  than 
to  her.  "  Well,  I  deserve  it.'" 

She  moves  away  from  him,  with  weak,  uncertain  steps,  to 
the  open  window. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  says,  hoarsely.     "  Say  good-bye,  Lyra." 

She  turns  her  face  to  him — it  is  well  for  her  that  he  is  not 
looking,  or  she  would  not  have  been  allowed  to  go — and  her 
lips  move,  but  no  sound  comes. 

When  he  turns,  she  is  there  no  longer. 

She  pauses  for  a  moment  in  the  drawing-room,  clutching  a 
chair  to  steady  herself,  to  wait  for  sufficient  strength;  then  she 
goes  up  to  her  own  room,  locks  the  door,  and  flings  herself 
face  downward  on  the  bed. 

How  long  she  lies  there,  Tvith  the  words  "  Too  later    nng- 


ONCE  IN  A  LIFE. 

ing  through  her  aching  brain,  she  knows  not;  but  after  awhile 
she  rises^  and  with  trembling  hands  begins  to  undress. 

As  she  does  so,  she  sees  a  letter  and  a  paper  lying  on  th« 
table. 

Mechanically  she  takes  them  up,  as  mechanically  opens  the 
letter  and  reads  it. 

It  is  in  a  crabbed,  half-taught  handwriting;  it  is  from 
Griffith. 

She  reads  it  through  once,  twice,  before  its  meaning,  its  full 
significance,  reaches  her  benumbed  brain;  then,  with  a  cry, 
she  drops  the  letter,  and,  throwing  her  arms  up,  falls  prone  on 
the  thick  Turkey  carpet,  the  letter  fluttering  down  like  a 
wounded  bird  and  resting  on  her  bosom. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

Lyra  came  to,  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  letter  lying  on 
her  bosom.  She  staggered  to  her  feet,  and,  as  one  who  is 
eager  to  convince  herself  of  the  reality  of  a  message  whose  im- 
port is  life  or  death,  reread  it  eagerly. 

It  was  in  the  crabbed  and  half-taught  handwriting  of  Grif- 
fith, and  ran  thus: 

"  DEAR  Miss  LYRA, — This  comes  saying  how  glad  I  was  to 
hear  that  you  were  safe  and  happy,  and  that  the  people  are 
kind  to  you.  And  why  shouldn't  they  be? 

"  All  is  the  same  here  as  when  you  left;  but  I  have  noose 
for  you,  which  you  must  not  be  fri'tened  at,  though  it  is  quite 
troo. 

"  Yesterday  I  was  down  by  the  lite-house  fishing,  and  I 
sor  a  crowd  of  men  by  the  rocks.  I  rowed  over,  and  sor  them 
bending  round  a  man  that  had  been  drowned  and  washed  up 
by  the  tide.  There  had  bin  a  storm  for  three  night,  and  he 
had  bin  knocking  about  the  rocks.  Nearly  all  his  clothes  was 
torn  off,  and  no  one  could  know  him.  They  said  that  he  must 
have  been  a  sailor  washed  overboard  one  of  the  coasters,  and 
that  he  had  been  in  the  water  three  or  four  days.  I  helped  to 
carry  him  into  the  lite-house.  Now,  while  I  was  carrying 
him,  I  noticed  that,  on  a  little  bit  of  the  coat  that  was  left, 
there  was  a  button  that  1  seemed  to  remember.  It  was  one  of 
those  shiny  buttons,  cut  like  a  star;  it  was  like  the  buttons  on 
the  coat  of  that  man  Geoffrey  Barle." 

Lyra  held  the  letter  away  from  her  and  shuddered. 

"  I  have  never  seen  any  other  buttons  like  it,  and  it  startled 
me.  When  we  had  got  him  into  uL-c  room  in  the  lite-house, 


ONCE    IN    A.    LIFE.  215 

the  men  examined  him,  and  one  of  them  pulled  a  pocket-book 
out  of  the  rags  of  the  coat.  I'd  seen  a  pocket-hook  like  that 
in  Mister  Barle's  hands,  and  I  asked  them  to  let  me  look  at  it. 
They  opened  it,  and  there  was  money  it — a  great  lot  of  bank- 
notes. They  said  there  was  five  hundred  pounds.  They  was 
all  wet,  and  had  to  be  dried  before  the  fire  before  they  could 
be  counted.  I  suppose  I  looked  a  bit  scared,  for  they  asked 
me  if  I  knew  him.  I  looked  at  him;  but  no  one  could  know 
him — not  his  own  mother — as  he  lie  there.  I  sed,  '  No,  I  did 
not  know  him ;'  but  I  sor  that  he  had  got  the  same  light-col- 
ored 'air  like  Mister  Barle.  Then  I  went  home.  I  went  to 
Barnstaple  and  quietly  made  inquiries.  I  found  that  he  was 
not  in  Barnstaple — not  at  any  of  the  hotels.  I  went  to  a  por- 
ter I  knew  at  the  station,  and  asked  him  if  he'd  seen  the  sort 
of  man  Mister  Barle  is  on  the  nite  he  left  the  cottage  and  I 
chased  him,  and  the  porter  said  no,  and  that  he  was  sure  no 
one  like  that  went  up  to  London  that  night;  because  he  was 
seeing  his  sweetheart  off,  and  noticed  everybody  on  the  plat- 
form. So,  dear  Miss  Lyra,  I  am  sure  that  the  man  I  sor  lying 
ded  at  the  lite-house  was  that  Mr.  Barle.  He  must  have 
fallen  into  the  river.  I  don't  know  what  passed  between  you 
that  nite;  but  I  know  that  you  'ated  him  and  was  afeard  of 
him.  So,  now  you  need  not  be  afeard  of  him  any  more,  becos 
he  is  dead.  I  send  you  the  noosepaper  where  you  can  rede  all 
about  the  body.  They  are  all  agreed  that  it  was  a  sea-captain 
coming  home  with  his  money,  and  there  is  no  fuss — you  know 
there  are  so  many  captains  and  sailors  washed  up  on  our  shore. 

"  So,  now  you  know  that  he  is  ded,  and  I  am  glad,  for  I 
hated  him. 

"  And  now,  dear  Miss  Lyra,  I  must  say  what  I  said  when 
you  went  away:  if  you  are  not  happy,  you  will  come  back.  It 
is  quite  different  here  without  you.  All  of  us— Carlo  and  the 
pigeons  and  the  fowls,  all  miss  you.  So,  come  back  when  you 
feel  like,  and  soon.  No  more  from  your  survant, 

"GBIFFITH." 

With  feverish  hands  Lyra  tore  the  wrapper  from  the  paper, 
and  read  the  account  of  the  finding  of  the  body  and 
quest.  It  minutely  described  the  appearance  of  the  body,  the 
coat,  the  pocket-book  and  its  contents,  and  it  drew  the  conclu- 
sion that  the  unknown  was  some  passenger  or  captain  in  one 
of  the  coasters,  who  had  fallen  overboard. 

She  read  and  reread  this  until  every  word  seemed  graven  a 
her  brain;    then,  with  her  hands  pressed  to  her  brow,  a 
paced  the  room,  trying  to  realize  the  fact  that  death  had  i 


216  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

her  free  from  the  bonds  which  Geoffrey  Barle  had  cast  round 
her. 

Not  for  one  moment  did  any  doubt  of  the  identity  of  the 
body  occur  to  her.  The  coat  button,  the  pocket-book,  were 
irrefutable  evidence. 

She  remembered  the  thick  white  fog  on  that  awful  night. 
She  knew  that  nothing  was  easier  than  for  a  man,  a  stranger, 
to  slip  on  the  steep  river-bank  and  fall  into  the  tide.  In  the 
event  of  his  not  Deing  able  to  swim,  he  would  inevitably  be 
drowned.  The  outgoing  tide  would  wash  him  out  to  the  bar, 
and  the  body,  beaten  against  the  rocks  by  the  wild  waves, 
would  soon  be  rendered  unrecognizable. 

A  shuddering  horror  took  possession  of  her  as  she  pictured 
the  unhappy  man's  fate — a  horror  that  for  a  time  almost  pre- 
vented her  realizing  that  his  tragic  death  had  brought  her 
freedom. 

"Geoffrey  Barle  is  dead — Geoffrey  Barle  is  dead!"  seemed 
to  ring  in  her  ears,  accompanied  by  the  swish  of  the  tide 
against  the  rocks. 

Not  for  one  moment  did  she  think  of  Lord  Dane.  All  her 
thoughts  were  concentrated  on  the  tragedy  set  forth  in  the 
letter  and  paper  which  were  clinched  in  her  hands. 

She,  who  had  been  wife  only  in  name,  wedded  by  stealth 
and  cunning,  was  now  a  wife  no  longer,  a  slave  no  longer, 
but  free. 

For  the  rest  of  the  night  she  lay  quite  still,  but  with  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  window,  in  which  the  moonlight  passed  to 
darkness,  and  the  darkness  to  the  bright  and  glorious  dawn. 

When  the  dressing-bell  rang,  she  knew  that  she  could  not 
rise  and  go  down  and  face  the  other  two  women.  She  knew 
that  the  reflection  of  the  tragedy  was  still  in  her  face,  in  her 
eyes.  An  hour  later  there  came  a  knock  at  the  door,  and 
Lady  Theodosia's  maid  entered. 

"  My  lady  sent  to  ask  how  you  are,  miss,"  she  said.  "  Oh, 
dear!"  she  broke  off,  looking  pityingly  at  Lyra's  white  face 
and  startled  eyes.  "  Then  you  were  hurt,  too,  last  night, 
miss,  after  all?" 

Lyra  shook  her  head. 

"  No,"  she  said;  "  I  was  not  hurt;  but  I  have  been  awake 
all  night.  Please  say  that  I  will  come  down  presently.  No, 
\o  not  bring  me  any  tea.  I  could  not  take  anything." 

The  maid  softly  lowered  the  blinds,  and  departed,  and 
Lyra  closed  her  eyes,  and  at  last  fell  asleep. 

She  woke  with  the  consciousness  of  some  one's  presence,  and 


' 


ONCE    IN"    A    LIFE.  217 

found  Mrs]  Leslie  standing  beside  her.     She  started  up  on  her 
elbow  and  put  her  hand  to  her  head. 

"  I — I  have  been  dreaming!*'  she  cried. 

Then  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  letter  and  paper  on  the  pillow, 
and  she  fell  back  with  a  sigh. 

"  My  dear  child/'  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  "  you  are  sure  you  were 
not  hurt  last  night?  Mary  quite  frightened  me  by  her  de- 
scription of  you.  but  you  are  not  looking  so  white  now  as  she 
said  she  found  you." 

"  No,  no.  I  am  quite  well,"  said  Lyra,  "  and  I  will  get 
up  at  once.  I  am  afraid  it  is  very  late." 

"  It  is  one  o'clock,  but  it  doesn't  matter  in  the  very  least 
You  must  not  get  up  unless  you  are  quite  well,  though — " 

Lyra  sat  up  and  looked  at  her. 

"  Though  what?"  she  asked.     "  What  is  the  matter?" 

For  she  saw  by  Mrs.  Leslie's  face  that  something  had  hap- 
pened. Had  they  discovered  her  secret?  Had  they  heard  of 
the  tragedy  of  Geoffrey  Barle's  death? 

Mrs.  Leslie  sunk  into  a  chair. 

"  Something  happened?"  she  echoed,  with  a  rueful  laugh. 
"  Indeed  there  has!  Last  night's  business  has  brought  about 
a  catastrophe.  Don't  look  so  frightened,  my  dear.  After 
all,  I  suppose,  it  is  not  so  very  terrible.  It  is  only  that  Lord 
Dane  and  Lady  Theodosia's  engagement  is  broken  off." 

"  Lord  Dane — Lady  Theodosia — broken  off !"  faltered  Lyra. 

"  Yes,"  Mrs.  Leslie  sighed;  then  laughed,  but  still  rather 
ruefully.  "  Something  must  have  occurred  between  them  in 
connection  with  that  upset  last  night.  Do  you  know  what  it 
was,  my  dear?" 

Lyra  hung  her  head. 

"Ah!  I  see  you  do.  Well,  I  won't  ask  you  any  questions. 
Anyway,  the  result  is  that  Lady  Theodosia  is  to  marry  Martin 
Fanshawe  instead  of  Lord  Dane. " 

"  Marry  Mr.  Fanshawe!"  was  all  Lyra  could  say. 

"  Yes.  He  hai  been  over  here  this  morning  and  proposed 
to  her,  and  she  has  accepted  him.  They  have  gone  out  to- 
gether as — as  coolly  as  if  there  was  no  such  person  as  Lord 
Dane  in  the  world.  It's  all  right,  of  course;  no  woman  ought 
to  marry  one  man  while  she  is  in  love  with  another;  but  it  is 
a  sad  blow  to  the  earl.  Though,"  she  added,  with  a  slightly 
puzzled  expression,  "  he  does  not  seem  so  cut  up  by  the  break- 
ing off  of  the.  match  as  on  Lord  Dane's  account.  He  is  here, 
my  dear." 

"  Here?  Lord  Dane?"  said  Lyra,  the  color  coming  into 
the  white  face. 


218  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

"  No;  the  earl,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie.  "  He  has  been  here  for 
the  last  two  hours."  She  paused  a  moment;  then,  from  the 
window  where  she  stood  with  her  back  to  Lyra,  she  added: 
"  He  is  waiting  to  see  you." 

The  crimson  flooded  Lyra's  face,  and  her  heart  seemed  to 
stand  still. 

"  To  see  me?  Oh,  no!  You  must  be  mistaken,  Mrs. 
Leslie." 

Mrs.  Leslie  came  up  to  the  bed  and  smiled  gravely. 

"  I  have  seen  the  earl;  he  is  waiting  to  see  you." 

"  But— but  why?    Oh!  do  you  know?" 

"  No,"  replied  Mrs.  Leslie,  "  I  do  not  know;  but  I  think  I 
can  guess."  She  drew  the  beautiful  head  to  her  bosom. 
"Why  are  you  so  frightened,  my  dear?" 

"  Why?  If  you  only  knew!"  faltered  Lyra.  "  Ah,  I  can 
not  see  him !  I  can  not  tell  why  he  should  wish  to  see  me. 
Help  me,  Mrs.  Leslie!  Tell  him — " 

Mrs.  Leslie  shook  her  head. 

"  You  must  see  him,  Lyra,"  she  said,  quietly.  "  If  not  to- 
day, to-morrow.  I  know  nothing.  All  is  so  confused  and 
sudden  that  I  am  bewildered;  but  I  can  form  half  a  guess, 
and —  Yes,  you  must  see  him;  I  will  tell  him  that  he  may 
come  to-morrow?" 

Lyra  shook  her  head. 

"  No,"  she  said;  "  I  will  come  down  now.  It  will  soon  be 
over." 

Mrs.  Leslie  insisted  on  helping  her  to  dress,  and  then  ac- 
companied her  down-stairs. 

"  He  is  in  Theodosia's  boudoir,"  she  said.  "  You  will  not 
be  interrupted."  Then  she  opened  the  door  and  said:  "I 
have  brought  Miss  Chester,  Lord  Starininster,"  and  closed  the 
door  softly  upon  them. 

The  earl  rose  from  a  chair  and  came  across  the  room,  and 
took  Lyra's  hand  and  bent  over  it. 

"  You  are  very  kind  to  see  me,  my  dear  young  lady,"  he 
said.  "  I  fear  " — she  could  feel  his  grave  eyes  on  her  face — 
"  that  the  effort  has  caused  yon  inconvenience?  I  trust  you 
were  not  hurt  in  last  night's  accident?" 

Lyra's  lips  formed,  "  No." 

The  earl  Jed  her  to  a  chair,  and  seated  himself  beside  her. 

"  Dane  assured  mu  that  you  were  not,"  he  said.  "  Miss 
Chester,  there  shall  be  no  beating  abor.t  the  bush  between  us. 
There  is  some 'thing  in  your  IV  .mi  ages  me  to  be 

frank  and  direct.  I  have  come  to  speak  to  you  of  my  son." 


ONCE    Df    A    LIFE.  219 

Lyra  raised  her  eyes  with  a  troubled  wonder  and  question- 
ing. 

"  Of— of  Lord  Dane?"  she  said. 

The  earl  inclined  his  head,  his  white  hands  clasped  over  the 
top  of  his  common  but  serviceable  oak  walking-stick. 

"Yes,  my  dear.  When  Dane  came  home  last  night,  he 
told  me  all  that  had  passed." 

Lyra  began  to  tremble. 

"  He  does  not  usually  make  me  his  confidant.  Indeed, 
Dane,  with  all  his  boyishness,  is  somewhat  reserved.  But  I 
found  him — well,  very  much  upset,  and  heard  that  he  had 
given  orders  to  his  servant  to  make  preparations  for  a  long 
journey  and  absence  from  England.  I  saw  that  something 
had  happened — that  something  which  makes  a  wreck  of  a 
man's  life — and — I  am  his  father,  my  dear — I  forced  his  secret 
from  him.  I  learned  that  his  engagement  with  Lady  Theo- 
dosia  had  ended,  and  that " — the  old  man's  voice  grew  low — 
"  he  loved  you!" 

Lyra  turned  her  head  away,  her  bosom  rose  and  fell. 

"  Do  not  be  so  distressed,  my  dear,"  he  went  on,  "  or  you 
will  make  my  task,  a  sufficiently  hard  one  now,  much  harder, 
and  well-nigh  impossible;  for  I  have  come  to  plead  for  my 
son,  Miss  Chester." 

"  To  plead  for  him?"  Lyra  breathed. 

The  earl  bowed  his  head. 

"Yes.  He  kept  nothing  back  from  me  last  night— laid 
bare  his  heart — I  was  going  to  say  his  hopes — but  indeed  there 
was  only  despair.  My  dear,  I  know  that  he  loves  you.  I 
know  that  he  once  thought  you  loved  him,  and  that  now  he 
knows  you  love  him  no  longer. ' ' 

Lyra"  half  rose,  as  if  she  could  not  endure  any  more. 

"'Bear  with  me  for  a  little  longer,"  said  the  old  man,  in  the 
voice  which,  when  he  used  it,  no  man  or  woman  could  resist. 
"  I  know  what  you  are  thinking  of  me— that  I  am  guilty  of 
impertinence — presumption,  in  thus  coming  to  you.  That 
your  refusal  of  my  son  should  be  accepted  by  both  him  and 
me  as  irrevocable;  but,  my  dear  child,  it  is  not  possible  that 
you  can  realize  how  much  that  refusal  means  to  him,  to  me, 
and  "—he  paused  a  moment—"  to  his  house.  You  know  but 
little  of  Dane,  he  tells  me,  my  dear;  you  can  not  realize  the 
strength,  the  force  of  his  character.  He  is  the  soul  of  honor 
— ves,  I  will  say  that— though  I  and  you  know  that  in  a  mo- 
ment of  passion  he  forgot  his  honor.  But  it  was  for  a  moment 
onlv.  But  he  is  now  free.  It  is  Theodosia  who  has  broken 
their  engagement;  he  loves  you— loves  you  with  that  fierce 


220  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

yet  enduring  love  which  is  characteristic  of  his  temperament 
and  his  race. " 

He  paused  and  looked  straight  before  him. 

"  If  you  refuse  to  marry  him,  he  will  never  marry." 

A  pause  again. 

"  That  means — you  see  how  frank  I  have  resolved  to  be 
with  you,  Miss  Chester,  that  the  title  will  go  to  a  man — well, 
I  will  say  no  ill  of  him,  excepting  that  I  have  learned  that  he 
is  unworthy  of  it.  But  it  means  more — that  my  son's  life  will 
be  wrecked  and  ruined.  He  will  leave  me,  will  leave  England, 
will  take  to  the  roving,  reckless  life  which  can  only  have  but 
one  end.  I  know  Dane.  I  know  what  it  all  means  for  him. 
I  " — his  voice  broke  for  a  moment — "  I  am  an  old  man;  he 
is  all  I  have  in  the  world.  After  he  parts  from  me  to-day,  I 
— I  shall  see  him  no  more!" 

"Oh!  no,  no!"  Lyra  breathed,  with  a  sob  in  her  voice. 

"  But  yes,"  said  the  earl,  very  quietly  but  very  sadly.  te  His 
love  for  you  will  last  till  death.  It  is  a  way  we  Starminsters 
have;"  he  smiled  mournfully.  "  Dane  will  not  be  the  first 
whose  life  has  gone  to  pieces  upon  the  rocks  of  an  unrequited 
love."  He  paused,  and  Lyra  remained  silent,  her  hands 
tightly  clasped  in  her  lap. 

"  I  had  great  hopes,  great  ambitions  for  Dane,"  the  earl 
went  on,  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  had  hoped  that  he  would  have 
stepped  into  my  place,  that  he  would  have  endeavored  to  serve 
his  country  and  his  queen  as  I  have  humbly  endeavored  to  do; 
and  though  I  have  long  abandoned  those  hopes,  still  I  looked 
forward  to  seeing  him  fill  his  place  in  the  world  worthily.  I 
have  looked  forward  to  the  time  when  I  might  have  his  chil- 
dren at  my  knee  to  cheer  my  last  days,  and  give  me  assurance 
that  my  race  would  be  worthily  perpetuated.  You  can  not 
guess  what  all  this  meant  to  me.  But  these  hopes  must  all 
be  shattered,  unless  " — he  paused — "  unless  my  pleading  with 
you  be  successful.  Miss  Chester,  it  does  not  become  a  father 
to  praise  his  son.  I  will  not  tell  you  that  Dane  is  worthy  of 
you.  No  man,  however  good,  however  noble,  can  be  worthy 
of  a  good  woman.  But  I  will  dare  to  say  this,  that  Dane  will 
make  the  woman  he  loves,  whose  love  he  can  gain,  a  happy 
woman.  Now,  my  dear,  I  have  finished  my  prayer,  for  it  is  a 
prayer.  I  come  to  you  to-day  and  ask  you,  beg  you,  to  re- 
consider your  decision.  Will  you  refuse  my  prayer?  Will 
you  not  try  and  love  my  son?  Will  you  not  be  his  wife?" 

Lyra  raised  her  head. 

"  You  ask  me  to  marry  Lord  Dane?"  she  said,  almost  iu- 
aucubly. 


OtfCE    m    A    LIFE.  221 

The  earl  bowed  his  head. 

"  I  do,  my  dear  child/'  he  said,  gravely,  almost  solemnly. 

Lyra's  hands  writhed. 

"  You — you  know  nothing  of  me,"  she  said.  "  You  speak 
of  worthiness,  my  lord.  How  do  you  know  that  I  am  worthy 
to  be  Lord  Dane's  wife,  to  be — your  daughter-in-law?" 

The  earl  smiled. 

"My  dear,  I  know  enough  of  you  to  feel  assured  on  that 
score.  I  have  seen  the  letter  of  the  clergyman  at  Barnstaple, 
and  know  from  that  how  fond  and  devoted  a  daughter  you 
were  to  the  father  who  has  passed  away.  A  good  daughter 
makes  a  good  and  loving  wife." 

"  He  knew — nothing,  nothing  of  me,"  Lyra  said,  huskily. 

"  No?  I  think  you  are  mistaken.  Besides,  you  forget  that 
I  have  seen  you;  and — forgive  an  old  man's  vanity,  my  dear 
— but  I  have  learned,  during  my  long  sojourn  in  Vanity  Fair, 
to  read  faces,  ay,  and  voices.  Your  face  must  be  a  very  clever 
mask  if  it  hide  a  false  heart  and  base  nature.  My  dear,  I 
trust  to  Dane's  judgment  and  my  own.  We  both  think  you 
more  than  worthy.  The  doubt  is  on  the  other  side;  but  I  will 
not  affect  a  doubt  I  do  not  feel.  Dane  loves  you;  he  will 
make  you  a  good  husband." 

"  He,  too,  knows  nothing,"  she  said,  almost  incoherently. 
"  If  he  knew—" 

The  earl  smiled. 

te  Tell  him — not  me — if  there  is  anything  to  be  told,  my 
dear,"  he  said,  with  gentle  dignity. 

"  I  can  not,"  said  Lyra;  "  I  can  not  marry  him,  my  lord." 

The  earl  took  her  hand  and  looked  into  her  eyes. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  do  not  love  him?"  he  asked,  his 
eyes  watching  her  keenly. 

The  blood  rushed  to  Lyra's  face,  her  lips  quivered  as  if  with 
physical  pain. 

"  I— I — oh,  it  is  cruel!    I  can  not  bear  it!"  she  broke  out. 

The  earl  pressed  her  hands. 

"  My  dear,  you  have  answered  me,"  he  said,  slowly,  grave- 
ly. "  Why  do  you  hesitate?  Why  are  you  so  reluctant  to  let 
your  heart  answer  me  as  it  desires  to  do?  Are  you  thinking  of 
the  difference  in  rank?  But  no,  that  would  be  a  vulgarity  of 
which  I  know  you  can  not  be  guilty.  Besides  "—he  smiled- 
"  I  have  a  shrewd  suspicion  that  you  come  of  a  family  as  old 
as  his.  But  it  is  not  that  you  are  thinking  of.  What  is  it, 
ihen?" 

Lyra  rose  and  turned  from  him. 

"  I  can  not  tell  you,"  she  said,  hoarsely. 


222  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

"  You  shall  not,"  he  said.  "  I  am  satisfied  with  the  knowl- 
edge that  you  love  my  son.  I  think,  my  dear  " — he  rose  and 
took  her  hand — "  that  you  will  not  refuse  an  old  man's 
prayer,  that  you  will  be  his  wife." 

As  he  spoke,  the  door  opened,  and  Lord  Dane  entered.  He 
stopped  short,  with  the  door  in  his  hand. 

"Father,  you  here!"  he  said.  "  Miss  Chester,  I  came  to 
say  good-bye  to  Dosie." 

"  Yes,  I  am  here,  Dane,"  said  the  earl,  still  holding  Lyra's 
hand.  "  I  have  come  to  plead  for  you." 

A  wave  of  color  passed  over  Dane's  haggard  face. 

"  You — you  should  not  have  done  that,  sir,"  he  said.  "  You 
only  trouble  Miss  Chester. " 

"  Do  you  think  so?"  said  the  earl.  "  Then  you  shall  plead 
with  her  for  forgiveness.  Tell  him,  my  dear,  that  you  pardon 
the  impertinence  of  an  old  man  anxious  for  his  son's  happi- 
ness." 

He  raised  Lyra's  hand  to  his  lips  with  the  last  word  and, 
went  out. 

Dane  stood  gnawing  at  his  mustache  and  gazing  at  Lyra. 

"  Will  you  say  good-bye  to  Dosie  for  me?"  he  said,  at  last. 

Lyra  made  a  gesture  of  assent;  her  face  turned  from  him. 

"  I  am  sorry  my  father  has  worried  you,"  he  said.  "  You 
see,  he  thinks  my  happiness  the  most  important  thing  in  the 
world;  it's  a  way  fathers  have;  forgive  him;  forgive  us  both. 
Miss  Chester,  good-bye.  It's  not  likely  you  will  be  worried  by 
either  of  us  again;  at  any  rate,  not  by  me.  I  leave  by  the 
afternoon  train,  and  " — he  stopped — "  won't  you  say  good- 
Dye,  Lyra  " — his  voice  grew  husky — "  shake  hands?" 

Half  turning,  she  held  out  her  hand.  He  took  it,  and  as  if 
•  ts  contact  had  scattered  his  self-possession  and  restraint  to  the 
vinds,  he  gripped  it  hard  and  drew  her  to  him. 

"Lyra,  I  can't  let  you  go — I  can't!  Oh,  my  dear,  have 
pity  on  me!  Try  and  love  me  a  little!  Be  my  wife,  and  let 
me  try  and  win  back  the  old  love!" 

"  No,  no!"  she  faltered. 

But  she  made  a  great  mistake  in  letting  him  see  her  eyes. 
He  must  have  read  something  of  the  love  that  was  burning  in 
her  heart,  for,  with  a  cry  of  half-doubting  joy,  he  caught  her 
to  him  and  held  her  locked  in  his  arms. 

"  Lyra,  my  love!     My  dear,  dear  love!"' 

She  hid  her  face  on  his  shoulder  with  an  irresistible  sur- 
render, but  he  raised  it,  and  holding  it  in  his  hands,  looked 
into  her  eyes. 


OXCE    I3T    A    LIFE.  223 

"  Lyra,  you  consent?  Why,  my  darling,  how  cruel  you 
have  been!" 

"  No,  no— wait!"  she  panted,  trying  to  escape,  but  vainly, 
for  he  laughed  at  the  denial  of  her  lips,  reading  the  avowal  in 
her  eyes—"  wait!  You  do  not  know!  Oh,  Dane,  you  do  not 
know!  I  have  something  to  tell  you.  I  tried  to  tell  him.  It 
is  something  you  must  hear  before  " — her  voice  died  away — 
"  before  you  ask  me  to  be  your  wife!" 

He  laughed  again. 

"  What  is  it?"  he  asked.  "  What  is  troubling  that  pure 
soul  of  yours?  Is  it  something  that  I  must  know?" 

"  Yes,"  she  breathed;  "  you  must  know,  and  when  you 
know,  you  will  not  ask  me  any  longer  to  be  your  wife.  You 
will  send  me  away." 

"  Really?"  he  said,  with  a  smile  on  his  lips,  in  his  eyes. 
"  I  don't  think  so.  What  have  you  been  doing?  Murder — 
forgery?"  He  laughed  aloud.  "  My  poor  Lyra,  I'm  afraid  if 
you'd  been  guilty  of  breaking  all  the  ten  commandments,  it 
wouldn't  make  any  difference  to  me!  It's  one  of  those  des- 
perate cases,  mine  is,  in  which  things  of  that  kind  don't  count. " 

She  shook  her  head  and  sighed,  almost  moaned.  Oh,  if  he 
could  but  learn  of  her  folly,  her  wickedness,  from  other  lips 
than  her  own! 

"  But  what  nonsense  this  is!"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  dur- 
ing which  he  smoothed  her  hair  and  kissed  the  silken  locks  on 
her  forehead.  "  My  dear  child,  I  know  what's  worrying  you. 
You  want  to  tell  me  about — about  some  other  man?"  lor  all 
his  declared  indifference,  his  voice  hesitated.  "  That's  it, 
isn't  it?" 

She  hid  her  face  on  his  shoulder,  then  tried  to  draw  away 
from  him. 

"  Let  it  rest  there,  dearest,"  he  said,  putting  her  head  on 
its  pillow  again;  "  and  first  you  listen  to  me,  as  you're  bound 
to  do — '  love,  honor,  and  obey,'  don't  you  know?  Now,  look 
here,  Lyra,  if  it's  the  sort  of  thing  I've  hinted  at,  don't  you 
say  any  more  about  it — that  is  " — he  broke  off  with  a  touch  of 
gravity — "  that  is,  if  you  are  sure  it  is  all  past  and  done  with. 
That  he — whoever  he  was,  confound  him!— has  quite  gone  off 
the  scene  and  won't  appear  again." 
She  shuddered  slightly. 

'Oh,  yes,  yes!" 


Now 

I  want— ^expect "you  to  confess  all  your  pas*, — well,  flirtations?' 


224  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

A  low  cry  escaped  her. 

"  Ah,  if  it  were  only  that!" 

"  Well,  love  affairs,  if  you  will  have  it  so,"  he  said.  "  I 
say,  if  you  expect  me  to  listen  to  'em,  even  you  expect  too 
much.  I  couldn't  doit;  it  would  drive  me  mad!"  A  mo- 
mentary sternness  rang  in  his  voice,  which  grew  gentle  as  he 
went  on.  "  My  dear,  I'm  as  jealous  as— what's  his  name  in 
the  play? — Othello.  I  should  be  miserable  every  time  I 
thought  of — of  what  you  want  to  tell  me.  Besides  " — his  tone 
became  grave  and  even  penitent — "  don't  you  see,  dear,  that- 
— that — well,  1  should  have  something  to  confess,  and — 
He  stopped;  then  broke  out,  almost  fiercely:  "  For  God's 
sake,  let  the  past  bury  its  dead,  and  don't  let  us  drag  its 
ghosts  about  with  us.  I'm  content,  Lyra,  if  you  are.  Tell 
me  that  you  are,  dear  one!  Tell  me  that  you  are  mine  from 
to-day,  as  I  am — yes,  I  am  yours — ah!  yours  only,  my  dearest, 
from  the  first  moment  I  saw  you,  when  you  pulled  me  out  of 
the  Taw." 

Lyra  wrung  her  hands.  What  could  she  do?  His  words, 
"  I  could  not  bear  it!"  sounded  like  a  stem  warning  in  her 
heart.  He  had  said  that  "  if  it  were  past  and  done  with." 
Well,  it  was  past — past  and  buried — gone  forever.  If  she 
told  him,  he  might — would — put  her  away  from  him,  and  she 
would  lose  him.  His  love  made  her  weak  as  water — guiltily 
weak,  if  you  like  to  have  it  so;  his  arms  round  her,  his  lips 
upon  hers,  robbed  her  of  all  strength  of  purpose.  Yet,  she 
tried  to  obey  the  stern  dictates  of  her  conscience. 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his — so  full  of  love,  so  piteous  in  their 
imploration — but  before  she  could  speak,  the  door  opened,  and 
Lady  Theodosia  and  Martin  Fanshawe  entered.  They  tried  to 
draw  back,  but  Dane  held  Lyra's  arm  as  she  endeavored  to 
spring  from  him,  and  stopped  them  with  a  word. 

"  You  have  just  come  in  time,  Dosie.  How  do  you  do, 
Fanshawe?"  he  said;  and  his  handsome  face  flushed  with  a 
man's  joy  and  triumph  in  the  woman  he  has  won.  "  Dosie, 
Miss  Chester  has  just  promised  to  be  my  wife." 

Lady  Theodosia  changed  color.  There  is  always  a  little  of 
the  dog-in-the-manger  temperament  even  in  the  best  of  women; 
but  Lady  Theodosia  was  one  of  the  best  of  best  women,  and 
the  feeling  did  not  last  longer  than  a  moment  or  two. 

"  Dane!"  she  faltered. 

Then  Martin  Fanshawe  proved  himself  of  the  right  metal. 
Suppressing  all  signs  of  astonishment  from  his  clean-cut,  as- 
eetic  countenance,  he  strode  forward  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  I  congratulate  you,  Lord  Dane,"  he  said,  "  I  congratulate 


OKCE    IN"    A    LIFE.  235 

you  most  heartily;  and  I  wish  you  every  happiness,  my  dear 
Miss  Chester." 

Dane  wrung  his  hand. 

"  Thanks,  old  fellow.  I'm  not  good  at  speech-making,  but 
I  say" — he  glanced  at  Dosie  rather  whimsically — "I  gav 
'Ditto/' 

Lady  Theodosia  came  forward  and  kissed  Lyra  with  sweet 
gravity. 

"  I  am  so  glad!"  she  said.  "  But— but  isn't  it  rather  sud- 
den? I  don't  mean  that,"  she  added  quickly,  and  flushing, 
for  Lyra's  head  drooped;  but  Dane  burst  into  a  laugh,  then 
grew  suddenly  grave. 

"  Look  here,  Dosie,  I've  got  to  confess — confession  is  good 
for  the  soul,  eh,  Fanshawe? — Lyra  and  I  are  not — ahem! — 
total  strangers;  we  had  met  before.  Now  hold  on!"  for  Lady 
Theodosia's  eyes  opened  wide.  "  It  was  my  fault;  I  asked  her 
not  to  tell;  I  told  her  to  hold  her  tongue.  Blame  me  if  there 
is  any  blame  going  about."  He  stopped  and  looked  queerly 
at  Lady  Theodosia,  who  colored.  "  That's  all  right.  We 
met — well,  not  exactly  in  a  crowd — some  time  ago,  and — but 
that's  a  matter  of  detail,  as  you'd  say,  Dosie,  and— 

The  earl  and  Mrs.  Leslie  came  into  the  room,  and  Dane 
turned  to  his  father. 

"  I've  got  her  forgiveness,  sir,"  he  said.  "  It's  all  right;" 
and  he  laid  his  hand  affectionately  on  the  old  man's  bent 
shoulders. 

The  earl  smiled  and  went  up  to  Lyra  and  drew  her  arm 
within  his. 

"  Let  us  go  into  the  garden,  my  dear,"  he  said,  with  the 
tact  for  which  he  was  famous,  "  and  you  shall  tell  me  all 
about  it." 

Mrs.  Leslie  looked  from  one  to  the  other  with  a  smile. 

"  No  wonder  she  fainted  the  night  you  appeared,"  she  said 
to  Dane. 

"  Yes;  I  had  a  good  mind  to  faint  myself,"  he  retorted, 
dryly. 

CHAPTEE  XXX. 

THE  ill-natured  philosopher  who  asserted  that  happiness  was 
impossible  in  this  sublunary  world  would  have  been  equally  dis- 
gusted and  surprised  if  he  could  have  known  these  two  pairs  of 
lovers,  who,  at  any  rate  for  the  four  following  months,  drank 
deeply  of  the  divine  c"»  of  human  joy,  which,  as  we  all  know, 
is  anticipation. 

8 


226  ONCE    IK    A    LIFE. 

Persons  in  high  places  can,  we  are  told,  do  anything,  and 
Martin  Fanshawe  and  Lady  Theodosia  were  desirous  of  being 
made  one  as  quickly  as  possible;  but  Lady  Theodosia  was  also 
desirous  that  there  should  be  a  double  wedding,  "  just  to  show 
that  there  was  no  ill-feeling/'  perhaps;  and  no  persuasion, 
even  of  Dane's,  would  induce  Lyra  to  become  Viscountess 
Armitage  before  six  months  had  elapsed.  Dane,  who  would 
have  liked  to  carry  her  off  to  church  the  following  morning, 
and  the  earl,  who  also  ardently  desired  the  marriage,  fought 
against  her  determination  in  vain. 

Seeing  that  she  was  "  Geoffrey  Barle's  "  wife  only  in  name, 
her  refusal  may  seem  strange  and  unreasonable;  but  she  held 
by  it  even  against  Lady  Theodosia' s  prayers  and  Martin  Fan- 
shawe's  gravely  just  arguments;  and  so  it  was  arranged  that 
the  double  wedding  should  take  place  in  January. 

Dane  declared  that  the  delay  was  wicked,  and  even  cruel, 
but  he  was  not  unhappy,  though  he  growled  and  grumbled  at 
intervals. 

It  was  a  lovely  autumn,  and,  refusing  all  the  shooting  invi- 
tations, he  stayed  on  at  Starminster — much  to  the  earl's  de- 
light— and  spent  his  time,  pendulum  fashion,  between  there 
and  Castle  Towers. 

Lyra  would  have  left  Lady  Theodosia,  but  that  demure  lit- 
tle lady  insisted  upon  her  remaining;  but  as  a  friend,  a  close 
and  loving  friend,  rather  than  "  companion." 

"  You  see,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  I  owe  you  such  a  big  debt 
of  gratitude.  If  Dane  had  gone  off  to  the  wilds  of  Africa,  or 
wherever  it  is  he  wanted  to  go,  I  should  have  been  rendered 
miserable  by  the  reflection  that  I  had  ruined  his  life,  and 
made  him  and  the  dear  earl  most  wretched.  You  just  saved 
me  from  that,  and  every  time  I  look  at  you  I  feel  relieved 
and  grateful." 

"  And  not  at  all  jealous?"  put  in  Mrs.  Leslie,  archly. 

"  No,"  responded  Lady  Theodosia,  gravely.  "  Not  jealous, 
though  I've  every  excuse.  I  can  quite  see  how  impossible  it 
was  for  Dane  to  go  on — caring  for  me  after  he  had  seen  Lyra." 

"Oh,  come;  I  don't  think  you  are  altogether  a  freak  of 
nature,  my  dear,"  remarked  Mrs.  Leslie.  "  Neither  does 
Martin." 

Notwithstanding  the  impatience  of  the  two  men,  the  months 
that  followed  were  very  happy  ones.  There  was  plenty  of 
game  at  Starminster,  and  the  earl,  eager  to  keep  Dane  by  his 
side,  filled  the  huge  house  with  a  party  of  shooting  men  and 
pleasant  women. 

At  first  Lyra  shrunk  from  th'e  ordeal  of  meeting  this  sample 


OtfCE    IK    A    LIFE.  227 

of  the  fashionable  world,  but  to  her  unbounded  surprise,  she 
found  not  only  that  it  was  a  very  pleasant  and  amiable  sample, 
but  that  it  was  unanimous  in  accepting  her  and  making  much 
of  her.  In  fact,  Lyra  Chester,  the  solitary  maid  of  the  Taw 
Valley,  became  extremely  popular.  The  men  raved  about  her 
beauty,  and  the  women,  who  are  much  harder  to  please 
praised  her  modesty. 

'  Ton  my  soul,  Dane  is  a  devilish  lucky  fellow!"  declared 
Wally  Vavasour,  who  was  supposed  to  be  the  supreme  judge 
of  feminine  worth.  "  Miss  Chester  is  not  only  the  most  beau- 
tiful girl  I  know,  but  she  is  the  only  girl  I  ever  met  who 
doesn't  know  that  she  is  pretty.  I  wonder  why  she  always 
dresses  in  black,  or  half  mourning?  I  know  it  suits  her — but 
there!  anything  would  suit  her,  donchaknow." 

To^  adequately  describe  Dane's  pride  and  glory  in  his  lovely 
fiancee  would  be  impossible.  As  Mrs.  Leslie  remarked,  he 
went  about  like  a  conquering  hero,  or  like  a  man  who  had 
discovered  the  biggest  diamond  on  earth,  or  the  Philosopher's 
Stone.  It  was,  she  declared,  a  perfect  treat  to  watch  him  as 
he  danced  with  her,  or,  at  a  distance,  looked  on  while  she 
danced  with  some  one  else. 

"  If  ever  a  marriage  was  made  in  heaven — and  I  am  told 
that  some  of  them  are  made  elsewhere — theirs  will  be.  It  is 
a  revival  of  the  Arcadian  period,  when  all  lovers  were  true 
and  love  reigned  triumphant." 

And  through  it  all,  under  the  admiring  gaze  of  the  men, 
and  the  sometimes  envious  glances  of  the  women,  Lyra  bore 
herself  perfectly.  Her  secret — the  awful  secret  that  in  the 
silent  watches  of  the  night  hovered  like  a  loathsome  specter 
over  her  dreams,  kept  her  humble  in  her  elevation. 

For  the  balls  and  other  splendid  functions  she  cared  little, 
though  she  was  the  acknowledged  queen  of  them,  and  she  was 
never  so  happy  as  when  she  was  seated  by  Dane's  side  on  the 
box  of  the  drag  and  behind  the  chestnuts  that  ran  away  that 
never-to-be-forgotten  night,  or  when  she  was  with  the  old  earl 
in  the  library,  reading  aloud  to  him  or  copying  one  of  his 
speeches  for  the  press. 

Between  Lyra  and  the  old  nobleman  a  very  warm  affection 
had  sprung  up  and  flourished,  and  once,  after  dinner,  he 
remarked  to  Dane: 

"  Dane,  if  I  had  married  a  woman  like  Lyra,  I  should  have 
been  Prime  Minister  before  this." 

And  Dane  had  laughed  with  proud  satisfaction. 

The  months,  enlivened  by  picnics,  balls,  and  shooting-par- 
ties, slid  away,  and  one  morning  in  January,  when  the  sun 

.   / 


238  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

shone  on  the  snow  and  turned  the  frost  on  the  hedge-rows  to 
diamonds,  which  outshone  even  the  famous  Starminster  tiara, 
Dane  and  Lyra,  and  Lady  Theodosia  and  Martin  Fanshawe 
stood  before  the  altar  of  the  small,  ivy-grown  church  in  the 
Starminster  grounds,  and  were  respectively  made  man  and 
wife. 

With  a  smile  of  joy  and  triumph,  Dane  pressed  Lyra's  arm 
to  his  heart,  as  he  led  her  to  the  vestry  to  sign  the  register. 

"  Mine  at  last,  dearest!"  he  murmured. 

Quiet  as  the  double  wedding  was,  for  Lady  Theodosia  and 
Lyra  had  stipulated  for  a  really  private  ceremony,  there  was 
a  large  crowd  in  the  vestry,  and  Wally  Vavasour,  who  acted 
as  best  man,  was  only  heard  by  Lyra  when,  as  he  led  her  to 
the  clerk  who  sat  beside  the  register,  he  said: 

"  He  wants  to  know  whether  he  is  to  put  '  spinster '  or 
'  widow/  Miss  Chester.  Good!  isn't  it?  I  suppose  the  poor 
beggar  is  obliged  to  put  the  question." 

A  smile  rose  to  Lyra's  face.  Her  great  happiness  had  wiped 
out,  for  a  time,  the  memory  of  that  other  wedding  in  the 
ruined  church  of  St.  Mark's  by  the  Taw.  Then  the  smile 
faded  and  she  turned  white. 

Dane  saw  the  change;  his  bridegroom's  eyes  were  constantly 
on  her  face. 

"  What  is  it,  dearest?"  he  murmured.  "  Are  you  faint? 
It's  this  awful  crowd.  Why  don't  some  of  you  get  outside?" 

"  No,  no!"  she  said;  and,  setting  her  face  into  a  semblance 
of  composure,  she  signed  the  register. 

Then  she  dropped  the  pen  and  turned  to  him  with  a  strange 
look  in  her  eyes, 

"  Remember,"  she  panted,  in  a  whisper,  "  you  would  not 
let  me  tell  you!" 

He  scarcely  heard  her;  every  one  was  chattering  as  they 
pressed  forward  to  sign  their  names  as  witnesses. 

"  What  did  you  say,  dear?"  he  asked. 

She  drew  a  deep  sigh  as  she  looked  up  at  him. 

"  Nothing,"  she  breathed—"  nothing." 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

"  DON'T  tell  me  there  is  no  such  thing  as  happiness  in  the 
world!  Do  you  think  I  have  forgotten  my  honey-moon?"  ex- 
claims the  heroine  of  a  modern  French  comedy;  and  Lyra 
might  have  echoed  the  retort. 

It  would  indeed  have  been  strange  if  she  had  not  been 
happy,  for  the  gods  had  lavished  their  choicest  gifts  upon  her 


OtfCE    IN    A    LIFE.  $29 

—youth,  beauty,  rank,  wealth,  and  the  love  of  a  man  who 
carried  her  heart  on  his  bosom! 

At  times  her  great  happiness  almost  made  her  tremble,  for 
it  seemed  to  her  that  no  human  being  had  a  right  to  so  full  a 
cup  of  joy  as  that  which  the  Fates  had  filled  for  her.  She 
forgot  that  she  had  had  a  fair  share  of  trouble  and  sorrow,  and 
that  it  was  time  the  wheel  of  fortune  turned  her  way. 

Like  a  couple  of  school-children  out  for  a  holiday,  she  and 
Dane  wandered  about  the  sunny  south — which,  by  the  way, 
does  not  always  earn  its  complimentary  title — making  a  short 
stay  in  some  places,  a  long  one  in  others,  just  as  then-  fancies 
prompted. 

To  Lyra,  who  had  only  read  of  the  beautiful  places  and  no- 
ble cities  of  the  Continent,  the  days  seemed  to  pass  in  an  end- 
less series  of  delicious  dreams,  and  in  her  intense  enjoyment 
Dane  found  a  pleasure  so  new  as  to  be  almost  startling. 

If  some  ingenious  chemist  could  put  up  Happiness  in  bottles 
and  retail  it  at  one  shilling  and  three  half -pence,  like  their  pat- 
ent medicines,  what  an  immense  fortune  he  would  make! 

Happiness  brought  the  color  to  Lyra's  cheek,  the  light  to 
her  eyes,  the  smile  to  her  lips;  so  transformed  her  that  Dane, 
who  was  absurdly  proud  of  his  wife's  beauty,  occasionally  asked 
himself  whether  this  radiantly  happy  girl  could  be  the  same 
pale,  weary-looking  woman  who  had  fallen  fainting  into  his 
arms  that  night  at  Castle  Towers. 

Though  they  had  resolved  to  travel  about  with  all  the  sim- 
plicity and  privacy  of — say,  a  city  clerk  and  his  bride — their 
presence  in  the  large  cities  was  speedily  known  to  the  English 
colony  which  may  be  found  hi  every  continental  town,  large 
or  small,  and  very  soon  after  their  arrival  at  a  hotel  cards 
fluttered  down  upon  them,  conveying  invitations  to  dinners 
and  "  At  Homes."  Most  of  these  hospitalities  she  and  Dane 
declined,  but  sometimes  the  invitations  came  from  old  friends 
of  his  or  the  earl,  and  a  refusal  was  impossible;  and  they 
would,  with  mutual  bewailings  and  sympathy,  go  to  Lady  So- 
and-so's  dinner-party  or  "  small  and  early;"  and  wherever 
they  went,  Lyra,  to  quote  Dane,  "scored  heavily."  Her 
loveliness  would  have  made  her  remarkable  and  welcome,  but 
that  mixture  of  sweet,  womanly  dignity  and  gentleness  which 
had  won  Dane's  heart  the  first  time  he  had  seen  her,  con- 
quered all  with  whom  she  came  hi  contact;  and  wherever  she 
went  she  made  friends  and  created  a  sensation  which  was  not 
long  hi  finding  expression  in  the  modern  society  journals. 

Dane  laughed  at  the  complimentary  paragraphs  which  Gal- 
ignani,  the  continental  newspaper,  copied  from  the  English 


$30  ONCE    IK    A    LIFE. 

journals;  but  I  have  a  shrewd  suspicion  that  he  was  not  alto- 
gether  displeased  at  the  fame  into  which  his  beautiful  wife  was 
all  unconsciously  stepping. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you  are  very  keenly  set  upon  being 
one  of  the  '  leading  women  ' — I  think  that's  the  proper  term, 
but  I'm  open  to  correction — but  I'm  afraid  you're  in  for  it, 
whether  you  like  it  or  not,  my  dear,'*  he  said  one  morning  as 
he  lolled  back  hi  a  deck-chair  on  a  balcony  hi  Eome,  smoking 
the  after-breakfast  cigarette,  and  looking  through  Oalignani 
with  that  perfect  enjoyment  of  sheer  laziness  which  only  the 
happy  can  experience. 

Lyra,  leaning  over  the  rail,  gazing  at  the  great  dome,  to- 
ward which  one's  eyes  are  constantly  drawn  wherever  in  Rome 
one  may  happen  to  be,  looked  at  him  with  a  smile  of  interro- 
gation. 

"  What  is  a  *  leading  woman,'  and  why  am  I  in  danger  of 
becoming  anything  so  dreadful  as  it  sounds?"  she  asked. 

He  laughed  and  regarded  her  through  half -closed  eyes,  with 
the  expression  which  a  man's  face  wears  when  he  is  looking  at 
the  woman  he  loves  and — which  is  a  very  different  thing — ad- 
mires. "  You'll  soon  know,  I  fancy,"  he  replied.  "  A 
leading  woman  is — well,  the  Duchess  of  Torchester  is  one  of 
'em.  You've  heard  of  her?" 

"  Of  course;  everybody  seems  to  know  her  and  talk  of  her. 
One  would  think  she  was  the  greatest  lady  in  the  world,  with 
one  exception." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Dane;  "  there  are  three  or  four  as  great  as 
she  is.  They  lead  the  fashion;  then*  word,  in  their  little 
world,  is  absolute  law.  To  be  admitted  to  their  friendship  is 
to  be  stamped  with  the  ha1!  mark  of  society.  In  short,  they 
are  the  rulers  of  the  '  hupper  sircle,'  as  Thackeray  calls  it." 

Lyra  laughed. 

"  How  terrible!  As  if  such  an  humble  and  insignificant  in- 
dividual as  I  should  ever  become  so  powerful  a  despot!  My 
lord  the  king  is  pleased  to  chaff  his  servant." 

"  Oh,  no;  listen  to  this,"  he  said: 

"  '  The  Viscount  and  Viscountess  Armitage  are  enjoying  a 
long  honey-moon  in  the  south.  We  hear  that  her  ladyship  is 
winning  golden  opinions  wherever  she  goes,  and  that  London 
may  prepare  itself  for  a  surprise  which  will  prove  an  absolute 
conquest.  Lady  Dane,  as  those  who  enjoy  the  inestimable 
privilege  of  her  friendship  are  fond  of  calling  her,  is  not  only 

ie  of  the  most  beautiful,  but  one  of  the  most  fascinating  of 
English  women,  and  her  wedding-trp  with  her  popular  hus- 
band partakes,  in  no  small  measure,  of  #  triumphal  progress. 


ONCE    IHT    A    LIFE.  231 

We  prophesy  tliat  this  coming — and,  strange  to  say,  her  first 
— London  season  will  be  an  immense  success.  The  viscount 
and  viscountess  are  at  present  in  Borne,  and  Rome  is  raving 
about  her.' 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that?" 

"  I  think  it  is  very  impertinent,"  said  Lyra,  with  height- 
ened color.  "  How  dare  they  print  such  nonsense  about  any 
one?" 

Dane  laughed  and  seated  himself  more  comfortably. 

"  My  sweetly  innocent  child,  they  mean  it  as  a  compliment; 
they  mean  to  be  pleasant.  If  I  were  to  go  and  kick  the  fellow 
who  writes  it,  he  would  be  a  great  deal  more  astonished  than 
aggrieved.  Why,  half  the  women  we  know  would  be  jerked 
into  the  seventh  heaven  of  delight  if  such  a  paragraph  were 
written  about  them!" 

Lyra  looked  slightly  incredulous. 

"  Oh,  Dane,  I  can't  think  you  are  right!  But  it  is  all 
nonsense.  It  isn't  there  at  all,  and  you  are  inventing  it  to 
tease  me." 

Dane  laughed  outright 

"  My  poor  girl,"  he  said,  with  mock  gravity.  "  There  is 
something  appalling  in  your  lack  of  women's  chief  attribute — 
vanity.  Some  of  these  days  I  shall  wake  up  to  find  I  haven't 
married  a  human  woman,  but  one  of  those  unnatural — what 
d'ye  call  it? — water-sprites — angels,  don't  you  know,  and  I 
shall  see  you  spread  your  wings  and  vanish  from  my  sight." 

"  I  shall  vanish  from  your  sight  without  any  wings,  sir,  if 
you  talk  such  terrible  nonsense,"  she  remarked;  but  added,  in 
the  woman's  undertone,  which  is  so  significant:  "  But  I  am 
glad  if  you  think  me — pretty,  Dane."  She  leaned  toward 
him  and  let  her  finger-tip  touch  his  short,  wavy  hah\  "  I 
suppose  every  woman  must  like  to  seem  well  favored  in  one 
man's  sight." 

Dane  laughed. 

"  Be  comforted,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "  I  think  you  are  tol- 
erably good-looking;  but  as  to  one  man's  " — he  smiled  with 
affected  ruefulness—"  that  is  coming  it  a  bit  strong,  seeing 
that  all  the  men  are,  as  this  newspaper  cad  says,  raving  about 
you.  I  suppose  there  is  safety  in  numbers,  otherwise  I  should 
be  jealous.  As  it  is,  I  am  only— well,  amused  and  flattered. 
Only  yesterday  that  handsome  boy,  Clarence  Hoare,  almost 
went  so  far  as  to  ask  me  what  the  devil  I  had  done  to  deserve 
such  a  peerless  creature." 

Lyra  smiled  and  colored. 


ONCE    IN    A    IISB. 

"  He  is  a  very  foolish  boy,"  she  said.  "I  will  tell  him  go 
if  you  like,  Dane." 

"  My  dear  girl,  he  would  not  be  a  bit  abashed,  and  for  good- 
ness' sake,  don't  hurt  his  feelings  on  my  account.  Besides,  if 
you  send  away  all  the  men  who  admire  you,  and  are  perfectly 
convinced  that  they  are  in  love  with  you,  I  sha'n't  have  a 
friend  left." 

Lyra  laughed. 

"  Keally,  you  don't  deserve  any  kindness  at  my  hands,  Dane; 
and  I've  half  a  mind  not  to  let  you  read  Dosie's  letter;  it  came 
this  morning. " 

"  Have  a  whole  mind,  my  dear,"  he  retorted,  blandly.  "  I 
know  Dosie's  letters  of  old  " — he  pulled  himself  up  and  bit 
his  mustache,  but  Lyra  did  not  appear  to  notice  his  moment- 
ary embarrassment.  "  What  does  she  say?  I  could  bear  a 
few  elegant  Detracts." 

Lyra  pulled  the  letter  out  of  her  pocket. 

"  Well,  they've  got  back.  They  were  obliged  to  cut  the 
honey-moon  short,  because  the  bishop  has  given  Martin  the 
living  at  Castle  Towers." 

"  Oh!"  grunted  Dane,  as  if  he  had  not  had  a  great  deal  to 
do  with  the  presentation.  "  That's  all  right." 

"  And  they're  very  happy — awfully  happy — and  she  has  dis- 
covered that  Martin  is  even  better  than  she  thought  him." 

"  Poor  man!  Humph!  you  won't  be  able  to  say  that  of 
me,  my  dear." 

"  No,  indeed!  And  here  is  a  message  from  the  earl.  Shall 
I  read  it?  No;  I  won't.  It's — it's  too  complimentary.  But, 
oh,  Dane,  how  good  and  kind  he  is  to  me!"  and  there  was  a 
tremor  in  her  voice. 

"  'Bead!  Read!'  as  they  shout  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons," he  said,  with  indolent  insistence. 

"  Must  I?  Well,  here  it  is:  '  Tell  Lyra,  that  though  I  do 
not  wish  to  curtail  their  honey-moon,  I  shall  be 'rejoiced  to  see 
them  back,  for  it  is  very  lonely  here  without  her.  In  truth,  I 
miss  her  badly.  You  may  say  that  I  am  having  Highfield  got 
Teady  for  them. ' ' 

Dane  looked  up. 

"Phew!"  he  murmured.  "Highfield!  That's  good  of 
the  guv'nor." 

"What  is  it,  Dane?" 

"  Well,  it's  the  largest  of  the  country  places,  excepting 
Starminster,  and  just  near  enough  to  the  Hall  to  be  conven- 
ient. That's  just  like  him!  He  never  does  things  by  halves. 
You'll  like  the  place,  I  think.  Lyra.  It  is  not  so  large  as 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  233 

Starmrnster,  but  it's  '  mighty  pretty/  as  the  Irishman  said 
of  his  favorite  pig.  But  go  on." 

Lyra  went  on  with  the  extract  from  the  letter. 

"  '  But  tell  her  that  I  will  not  let  them  go  and  live  there, 
unless  they  promise  to  keep  a  room  for  an  old  man,  who  will 
crave  for  a  quiet  corner  in  the  house  of  his  daughter,  when, 
weary  with  the  turmoil  and  clatter  of  noisy  politics,  he  longs 
for  rest  and  the  companionship  of  those  he  loves.'  " 

The  tears  came  into  Lyra's  eyes  as  she  read. 

Dane  nodded  with  intense  satisfaction. 

"  Poor  old  guv'nor!  Tell  him  we'll  keep  an  attic  for  him, 
and  that  he  shall  always  have  a  chop  in  the  library.  Any- 
thing else?" 

Lyra  ran  down  the  closely  written  lines. 

"  Oh,  yes;  this,  Dane:  'Please  tell  Dane  that  we  are  all 
rather  anxious  about  Chandos. ' ' 

"  They  don't  say  so!"  remarked  Dane,  ironically.  "  What's 
the  matter  with  him?" 

"  *  Dane  will  remember,'  Lyra  went  on  reading,  '  that 
he  sent  no  reply  to  the  invitation  to  the  wedding,  nor  any 
present,  which  seemed  strange  at  the  time.'  " 

"  Humph!  it  didn't  to  me,  nor  the  non-appearance  of  the 
present,"  growled  Dane. 

"  '  And  the  other  day  Martin  called  at  Chandos's  rooms, 
and  was  surprised  to  find  that  he  had  not  been  seen  there  for 
months.  The  landlady  showed  him  a  pile  of  letters — the  in- 
vitation was  among  them — which  had  come  for  Chandos,  and 
said  that  she  had  not  heard  from  him  for  months,  and  did 
not  know  his  address.  The  earl  thinks  that  something  may 
have  happened  to  him.' ' 

"  No  cause  for  alarm;  the  devil  takes  care  of  his  own," 
muttered  Dane. 

"  What  did  you  say?"  asked  Lyra. 

"  Nothing  of  any  consequence.  ' 

"  Who  is  Chandos?"  she  asked,  as  she  put  the  letter  away. 

"  Chandos  is  my  cousin — Chandos  Armitage,"  said  Dane. 
"  Don't  happen  to  have  a  match  in  your  pocket,  my  dear,  do 
you?" 

As  a  matter  of  course,  Lyra  fetched  a  box  from  the  room, 
lighted  a  match  and  held  it  to  his  cigarette,  and  then,  equally 
as  a  matter  of  course,  held  her  cheek  for  payment. 

"  Your  cousin?    I  never  heard  of  him." 


heard 


I  dare  say.     No  end  of  aunts  and  cousins  you  haven't 
il  of  yet,  thank  your  stars;   though  most  of  ''cm,  I'm 


334 

bound  to  say,  are  better  worth  knowing  than  Master  Onau- 
dos." 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  him?"  Lyra  asked. 

She  was  leaning  over  the  balcony,  looking  dreamily  again  at 
the  great  dome,  which  stood  out  from  the  clear  blue  of  the 
Italian  sky.  A  distant  bell  was  ringing;  the  sun,  the  Koman 
sun,  which  turns  grim  winter  into  bright  summer,  shone  on 
the  crowd  beneath;  on  the  market  women  in  their  white  caps 
and  scarlet  skirts;  on  the  grave  priests  and  monks  and  black- 
robed  Sisters  of  Mercy  going  "  about  their  Father's  business;" 
on  the  street  boys  yelling  then*  papers  and  fruit  and  flowers. 
She  asked  the  question  with  but  faint  interest. 

"  A  great  deal  is  the  matter  with  him,  morally.  He  is  not 
a  nice  man  by  any  means,  though  I'm  afraid  a  great  many 
persons,  especially  women,  think  otherwise.  He  is  supposed 
to  be  very  clever,  literary,  musical,  and  all  the  rest  of  it;  but 
— well,  he  isn't  an  honor  or  credit  to  the  family,  and  if  it  is 
true  that  he  has  disappeared  from  civilization — well,  civiliza- 
tion is  to  be  congratulated." 

"  Poor  fellow!"  said  Lyra. 

Dane  took  the  cigarette  from  his  mouth  and  stared  at  her. 

"Beg  pardon?"' 

"  I  said  *  Poor  fellow!'  "  said  Lyra,  softly.  "  Don't  you 
pity  anybody  who  is  like  your  cousin  Chandos,  Dane?  It  must 
Be  so  bad  to  be  wicked;  one  must  be  so  unhappy;  to  feel  that 
you  have  spent  your  life,  the  dear,  sweet  life  which  God  has 
blessed  you  with,  in  doing  harm  to  others — oh,  Dane,  ono 
must  be  wretched!" 

Dane  smiled,  but  gravely. 

"  That's  like  one  of  Dosie's  speeches,"  he  said.  "  After 
all,  one  good  woman's  like  another,  I  suppose." 

Lyra  laughed,  but  gravely,  also. 

"  You  mustn't  compare  me  with  Dosie,"  she  said.  "  Dosie 
is  an  angel,  and  I  am  only — " 

"  A  rather  prepossessing  young  woman,"  he  put  in.  "  Yes, 
that  was  a  very  nice  bit  of  moral  sentiment  of  yours,  my  child, 
but  I'm  afraid  it  won't  wash.  I'm  afraid  Chandos  isn't  at  all 
wretched.  He  thinks  he  is  making  a  jolly  good  thing  out  of 
his  life,  though  it  isn't  particularly  sweet,  and  certainly  isn't 
blessed.  It's  a  mistake  to  imagine  that  the  wicked  are  un- 
happy— at  any  rate,  while  they're  young,  and  are  *  a-going  of 
it.'  They  flourish  as  the  bay- tree,  don't  you  know,  and 
Chandos  flourishes  particularly.  Bless  your  innocence,  he  is 
worshiped  by  no  end  of  people — who  don't  know  him.  As  to 
anything  having  happened  to  him,  don't  you  believe  it.  He's 


OSTCE    IN    A    LIFE.  235 

all  right,  and  up  to  mischief  somewhere.  He'll  torn  up  fresh 
and  smiling — like  Hamlet's  idea  of  a  villain — and  laugh  at 
'em  for  thinking  he  was  drowned — or  hanged." 

"Dane!"  murmured  Lyra,  rebukingly.  "Perhaps  he  is 
not  so  bad  as  you  have  painted  him." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  he  assented,  laconically;  "  but  to  do  his 
portrait  correctly,  you'd  want  a  heap  of  lampblack,  I  can  tell 
you.  But  don't  let's  talk  about  him;  he  spoils  my  cigarette: 
bad  taste  in  the  mouth.  Long  may  he  stay  away,  wherever 
he  is.  Well,  I  suppose  I  ought  to  get  up"  and  go  out.  It's 
about  the  time  young  Clarence  drops  in,  isn't  it?  And  the  poor 
boy  looks  so  aggrieved  if  I'm  at  home  that  I  feel  quite  guilty 
— like  an  interloper." 

Lyra  laughed. 

"  We'll  both  go,"  she  said. 

"  Better  not;  or  if  he  finds  you're  out,  he'll  pitch  himself 
over  the  balcony.  Heartless  coquette  as  you  are,  I  imagine 
you  wouldn't  care  to  have  the  lad's  blood  on  your  head." 

"  You  deserve  to  have  my  hands  on  your  ears,"  she  re- 
torted; and  she  bent  toward  him,  to  be  caught,  kissed,  and 
held  until  she  freed  herself. 

"  Eeally,  Dane,  your  behavior  is  outrageous!  You  forget 
that  those  windows  in  the  palace  opposite  rake  this  balcony." 

"  Let  'em;  who  cares?"  he  retorted,  as  he  rose  and 
stretched  himself. 

His  yawn  was  cut  short  by  an  exclamation  from  Lyra.  She 
had  returned  to  the  railing,  and  was  looking  down  at  some- 
thing or  some  one  below. 

' '  'What's  the  matter?    Fire?" 

"  Oh,  Dane,  there  is  such  a — I  was  going  to  say  handsome 
man  standing  on  the  pavement  opposite!  But  he  is  not  so 
handsome  as — as  singular  and  distinguished-looking.  See?" 

He  leaned  over  beside  her  and  looked  lazily  across  the  street 
Then  he  said: 

"  By  George!  it's— yes,  it  is  St.  Aubyn!" 

"You  know  him?"' 

"  Rather;  was  at  college  with  him.  Best  fellow  alive.  Poor 
devil!" 

"  Why  do  you  say  that?"  she  asked. 

As  she  spoke,  the  man  raised  his  head  and  looked  up  at 
them.  His  face  was  a  handsome  one,  but  was  spoiled  by  a 
weary,  listless  look  which  impressed  one  by  its  intense  sad- 
ness. He  was  dark,  and  the  hair  at  his  temples  was  touched 
with  silver,  though  he  was  still  a  young  man.  The  air  of  dis- 
tinction which  had  attracted  Lyra's  attention  struck  a  keen 


23  6  ONCE    IK    A    LIFE. 

note  for  the  most  casual  observer.  Few  men,  and  fewer  worn* 
en,  ever  passed  him  with  a  single  glance. 

His  listless,  melancholy  eye  wandered  along  the  house 
fronts  till  it  reached  the  balcony;  then,  as  he  recognized  Dane, 
his  face  was  lighted  up  by  a  singularly  sweet  smile;  but  as  he 
saw  the  lovely  woman  by  his  side,  it  disappeared,  and, 
slightly  raising"  his  hat,  he  walked  on. 

"Confound  it!  he's  gone,"  exclaimed  Dane.  "He  saw 
you." 

"Saw  me!"  said  Lyra,  open-eyed.  "Why  should  I 
frighten  him  away?  What  do  you  mean,  Dane?" 

He  laughed,  but  with  a  touch  of  disappointment. 

"  Oh,  St.  Aubyn  is  a  woman-hater!"  he  said. 

"  A  woman-hater?"  echoed  Lyra,  who  had  never  met  nor 
heard  of  this  phenomenon., 

Dane  nodded  and  sighed. 

"  Yes — poor  old  chap!  That  man's  history  is  a  sad  one. 
He  is  one  of  the  best  fellows  that  ever  walked  the  earth.  Fact. 
He  and  I  were  the  closest  friends." 

"  Then  I  am  sure  he  must  have  been  a  good  fellow,  Dane," 
murmured  Lyra. 

"  Thank  you,  dear.  Well,  he  was  one  of  those  men  who 
would  lay  down  their  lives  for  a  friend.  No  end  of  scrapes — 
scrapes  that  would  have  floored  me — he  has  got  me  out  of. 
Always  stood  by  me  like  a — like  a  brick!" 

He  smoked  in  silence  for  a  moment  or  two,  evidently  recall- 
ing old  college  days;  then  he  went  on: 

"  After  he  left  college  he  fell  in  love.  She  was  a  handsome 
girl  enough,  but — well,  everybody  but  poor  St.  Aubyn  could 
see  what  sort  of  a  girl  she  was.  At  that  time  he  was  a  long 
way  off  the  title." 

''  What  is  he?"  asked  Lyra. 

"  The  Earl  of  St.  Aubyn.  There  were  two,  if  not  three, 
between  him  and  the  title,  and  she  refused  him.  She  was  as 
pretty  as  paint — one  of  those  fair  girls,  with  hair  like  gold, 
don't  you  know — gold  hair  and  blue  eyes,  innocent  as  a  child, 
but  in  appearance  only.  He  was  terribly  cut  up  when  she 
refused  him,  and  when  the  two  or  three  lives  between  him  and 
the  title  gave  out,  he  was  as  indifferent  about  it  as  if  he'd  only 
come  into  a  couple  of  hundred  pounds.  I  think  it  was  I  my- 
self who  plucked  up  cheek  enough  to  advise  him  to  try  his 
luck  with  the  fair  Lilian  again  and — well,  of  course  she  ac- 
cepted him — swore  she'd  loved  him  all  the  time." 

"  Oh,  Dane!" 

"  My  dear  " — he  smiled — "  all  women  are  not  so  single- 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  337 

minded  and  unmercenary  as  you.  "Well,  they  were  married. 
It  was  all  love — red-hot  live — on  his  aide.  There  was  no  wom- 
an like  her.  He  only  lived  while  he  was  with  her.  He  was 
in  the  clouds,  all  abroad,  when  he  was  away  from  her.  He 
used  to  talk  about  her  to  me — and  to  other  fellows,  I  dare  say 
— just  like  a  boy  over  his  first  love.  Then  one  day — well,  one 
day  she  left  him.  He  discovered  that  she  had  not  only 
deceived  him  after,  but  before  his  marriage.  "What  is  the 
matter,  dear?"  he  broke  off  to  ask,  for  Lyra  was  trembling, 
and  her  face  had  gone  white. 

It  was  a  moment  or  two  before  she  could  answer: 

"  Nothing,  Dane.     Go  on." 

"  It  was  the  old  story/'  he  continued,  as  he  lighted  another 
cigarette.  "  There  had  been  a  lover  before  their  marriage; 
he  had  reappeared  afterward,  and  the  fair,  golden-haired 
Lilian — who  was  simply  a  goddess  in  the  eyes  of  her  husband, 
a  type  of  perfect  womanhood — had  chucked  up  everything — 
a  devoted  husband,  her  good  name,  rankj  wealth — oh!  every- 
thing, for  the  sake  of  a  dirty  scoundrel — ^ 

He  stopped  and  smoked  fiercely. 

Lyra's  hand  slid  along  the  rail  of  the  balcony  until  it 
reached  his  arm  and  fastened  on  it  timidly. 

"  Oh,  poor  man,  poor  man!" 

"  Yes,  you  may  well  say  that.  Poor  devil,  he  was  like  a 
madman.  In  fact,  I  think  he  was  out  of  his  mind  for  a  time. 
He  followed  the  man  and  thrashed  him,  almost  under  her  eyes. 
Served  him  right — pity  he  didn't  shoot  Tier.  Then  he  disap- 
peared for  a  long  time.  When  he  came  back — well,  he  was 
as  you  see  him,  no  more  like  the  old  St.  Aubyn  than  I'm  like 
that  carved  water-spout.  She'd  broke  him,  body  and  soul- 
stone-broke  him.  He  told  me  that  there  was  only  one  thing 
he  regretted,  and  that  was  that  the  scoundrel  hadn't  shot 
him.  He's  the  last  of  the  St.  Aubyns;  the  title  dies  with 
him;  and  he's  not  at  all  likely  to  marry  again.  Likely!  Well, 
he  hates  women— simply  hates  them,  poor  old  chap!" 

Lyra  was  silent  a  moment. 

"  No  wonder!"  she  said;  and  there  was  a  depth  of  feeling, 
of  tender,  forgiving  sympathy  in  her  voice.  "  Oh,  poor  man, 
poor  man!  How  wicked,  how  vile  she  must  have  been! 

Dane  nodded. 

"Yes;  when  you  women  are  bad— well,  you  are  bad;  and 
when  you  are  good  "—he  put  his  arm  around  her  and  pressed 
her  to  him— "you  are  good!  Halloo!'  there  he  is,  coming 
back  again.  Just  dra^  -ut  of  sight,  dear— just  for  a  mo- 
ment." 


238  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

Lyra  sunk  into  the  deck-chair  and  pressed  her  hands  over 
her  eyes.  She  heard  Dane  call  out: 

"  Halloo!  St.  Aubyn!    Come  up,  old  chap!" 

"  Will  he  come?"  she  asked  in  a  whisper,  as  if  the  man  of 
whom  she  was  speaking  could  hear  her. 

"  Yes;  I  think  so,  if  you  keep  out  of  sight.  Yes;  he  nods; 
he  is  coming." 

"  I  will  go,"  said  Lyra,  after  a  moment  or  two;  but  as  she 
rose  to  make  her  escape,  footsteps  were  heard  on  the  stairs, 
and  the  valet  appearing  at  the  glass  door  of  the  room  behind 
the  balcony  announced  Lord  St.  Aubyn. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

LORD  ST.  ATJBYN  responded  to  Dane's  greeting  with  the 
same  warmth  with  which  it  wa/jSfc«orded,  and  the  two  men 
held  each  other's  hands  and  \oo$m  into  each  other's  eyes  as 
only  old  and  tried  friends  can.  >JF 

"  My  dear  old  man,"  Dane  exclaimed,  "  I'm  delighted  to 
see  you!  What  a  rum  thing  that  you  should  have  been  pass- 
ing just  as  I  happened  to  be  sitting  here!  Lyra,  this  is  a  very 
old  chum  of  mine,  Lord  St.  Aubyn." 

In  an  instant  the  warmth  disappeared  from  St.  Aubyn's 
face,  and  in  a  cold,  reserved  manner  he  bowed  to  Lyra.  For 
a  moment  or  two  his  sad,  weary  eyes  rested  on  her  face;  but 
though  he  could  not  have  failed  to  note  her  beauty,  it  did  not 
strike  a  spark  of  admiration  out  of  him. 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  married,  Dane,"  he  said,  coldly. 

Dane  laughed. 

"  Scarcely  aware  of  it  myself,  old  chap.  Honey-moon,  you 
know." 

Lord  St.  Aubyn  inclined  his  head  and  took  the  chair  which 
Dane  put  for  him. 

"  I  congratulate  you,"  he  said,  simply,  seriously,  without  a 
trace  of  the  'conventional  smile. 

Lyra  would  have  taken  flight,  but  that  she  feared  that  by 
doing  so  she  would  convey  to  Lord  St.  Aubyn  the  knowledge 
that  she  and  Dane  had  been  discussing  him;  but  she  withdrew 
as  far  as  the  balcony  would  allow,  and  returned  to  her  con- 
templation of  the  street. 

Dane  started  on  the  usual  series  of  questions:  How  long 
had  he  been  in  Rome?  How  long  was  he  going  to  remain? 
What  hotel  was  he  staying  at?  And  Lord  St.  Aubyn  made 
his  replies  in  his  grave  but  musical  voice  which  had  impressed 
Lyra  rather  favorably. 


ONCE    IK    A    LIFE.  839 

"  I  am  oaly  passing  through,  and  may  go  to-morrow.  I 
am  staying  at  the  Hotel  Coronna." 

"  Oh,  you  can't  go  to-morrow!"  said  Dane,  in  his  down- 
right fashion.  "  Why,  it's  ages  since  I  saw  you,  and  I'm  not 
going  to  let  you  bolt  off  like  that.  You've  nowhere  in  par- 
ticular to  go,  I  suppose?" 

Lord  St.  Aubyn  made  a  slight  gesture  in  the  negative. 

"  Very  well,  then.  You  just  stay  on,  for  a  bit,  at  any  rate. 
There  are  a  heap  of  people  here — there  always  are — but  there 
is  no  one  I  know  particularly,  and  I  was  just  wishing  tkat  I 
could  just  run  across  a  chum." 

Lord  St.  Anbyn  glanced  at  Lyra,  and  Dane  laughed. 

"  You  think  that  I'm  not  very  complimentary  to  my  wife?" 
he  said.  "  Oh,  but  that's  all  right.  We  haven't  begun  to 
bore  each  other  yet,  but,  all  the  same,  an  old  chum  is  wel- 
come. Ask  him  to  dine  with  us  to-night,  Lyra. " 

Lyra  turned  her  head. 

"  We  shall  be  very  pleased  if  you  will,  Lord  St.  Aubyn," 
she  said. 

"  Thank  you,  Lady  Armitage,  but  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  am 
engaged,"  he  said,  quietly  but  promptly,  and  in  a  tone  that 
settled  the  matter. 

"  What  a  nuisance!"  said  Dane.  "  Never  mind;  we'll  book 
you  for  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow  I—"  began  St.  Aubyn;  but  Dane  interrupted 
him  quickly. 

"  Well,  well,  we  won't  bother  you.  What  do  you  say  to  a 
stroll?  Lyra,  get  your  hat  on,  and  come  with  us." 

Lyra  glanced  at  the  sad,  somber  face. 

"  I  have  some  letters  to  write,"  she  said.  ;'  You  must  go 
without  me  this  morning." 

And  as  she  spoke  she  fancied  that  Lord  St.  Aubyn  looked 
Sieved.     But  Dane  declined  to  accept  the  excuse. 

"Oh,  nonsense!  Write  'em  this  afternoon.  The  post 
doesn't  go  out  until  the  evening.  Run  away  and  put  your 
pinafore  on,  there's  a  good  girl." 

There  was  a  silence  between  the  two  men  for  a  moment  or 
two  after  Lyra  had  left  them.  Then  St.  Aubyn  said: 

"  And  so  you  are  married,  Dane?" 

Dane  nodded. 

"  Yes,  to  the  best,  the  dearest- 
Then  he  stopped.     St.  Aubyn  was  scarcely  the  man  t 
appreciate    marital    rhapsodies.      No    doubt    he,    too,    J 
thought  his  wife  "  the  best,  the  dearest,"  etc. 


240  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

"  She  is  very  beautiful,"  he  said,  slowly.  "I  wish  you 
every  happiness,  Dane/' 

"  Thanks,  old  man,"  responded  Dane,  and  quickly  got 
away  from  the  subject. 

They  chatted  over  old  times  and  mutual  acquaintances  until 
Lyra  reappeared.  Then  Dane  went  off  to  put  on  his  boots 
and  oyercoat,  and  she  and  St.  Aubyn  were  left  to  entertain 
each  other. 

It  seemed  for  a  time  as  if  he  intended  to  maintain  a  pro- 
found silence;  and  Lyra,  who  felt — well,  rather  nervous  in  the 
presence  of  this  strange  animal — for  it  was  the  first  professed 

woman-hater  "  she  had  met — was  longing  for  Dane's  re- 
turn, when  Lord  St.  Aubyn  said: 

"  Your  husband  and  I  are  very  old  friends;  but  I  dare  say 
he  has  already  told  you  that,  Lady  Armitage?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Lyra. 

Then  she  colored,  for  the  dark-gray  eyes  fixed  upon  her 
seemed  to  add: 

"  And  has  told  you  everything  else  about  me?" 

He  noticed  the  flush,  and  appeared  to  take  it  as  an  answer 
to  his  unspoken  question. 

"  He  is  looking  remarkably  well  and  happy/'  he  said. 
"  Will  you  let  me  say  that  he  deserves  to  be  both,  for  he  is  the 
very  best  of  good  fellows." 

Lyra  flushed  again,  but  with  pride  this  time. 

"  I  will  let  you  sing  Dane's  praises  as  long  as  you  please," 
she  said,  hi  her  sweet,  frank  way. 

The  shadow  of  a  smile  crossed  his  face. 

"  No  one  coulc1  do  it  with  better  excuse,"  he  said,  "  for  1 
have  no  closer  friend." 

Then  he  leaned  over  the  balcony-rail  and  appeared  to  com- 
pletely forget  her  presence. 

Dane  shouted  to  them  from  one  of  the  lower  windows,  and 
they  found  him  in  the  street,  and  went  for  their  stroll. 

The  two  men  talked  together,  almost  to  the  exclusion  of 
Lyra,  who  was  quite  content  to  listen,  and  declined  to  accept 
'the  attempts  which  one  or  the  other  of  them  now  and  again 
made  to  include  her  hi  the  conversation. 

Dane  was  delighted  at  meeting  with  his  old  friend,  and  she 
was  delighted  in  his  delight,  and  so  was  perfectly  happy. 

It  was  evident  that  Lord  St.  Aubyn  was  not  only  a  great 
traveler,  but  that  he  did  not  do  his  "  globe-trotting  "  with  his 
eyes  closed  or  his  brain  asleep,  and  Lyra  was  intensely  inter- 
ested in  the  short  but  graphic  accounts  of  his  wanderings. 
Borne  he  seemed  to  know  as  well  as  if  he  had  been  bom  there; 


OtfCE    iy    A    LIFE.  241 

and  once  when  Lyra  stopped  to  look  at  an  old  church,  and 
asked  Dane  its  name,  and  he  replied,  with  a  laugh,  "  Good- 
ness only  knows!  Where  is  your  precious  Baedeker?'*  Lord 
St.  Aubyn  volunteered  the  information,  and  supplemented  it 
by  a  brief  epitome  of  its  history. 

And  gradually,  as  they  strolled  along,  he  grew  more  com- 
municative to  her,  and  pointed  out  and  explained  the  various 
"  lions  "  with  which  almost  every  street  of  the  Eternal  City 
is  blessed. 

But  his  eyes  scarcely  ever  rested  on  her  face,  and  his  man- 
ner was  marked  with  the  reserve  with  which  he  had  first 
greeted  her.  They  lunched  together  in  one  of  the  restaurants, 
and  when  Lord  St.  Aubyn  rose  to  take  his  leave,  Dane  at- 
tacked him  with  another  invitation  to  dinner. 

"  It's  all  nonsense — that  excuse  of  yours  of  a  previous  en- 
gagement, St.  Aubyn.  Don't  be  disagreeable,  but  dine  with 
us  to-night — there's  a  good  fellow!  If  you  really  are  engaged, 
chuck  the  other  people  over." 

"  I  was  not  engaged,  and  I  will  dine  with  you,"  said  St. 
Aubyn,  quietly;  and  raising  his  hat,  he  walked  off. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  him?"  asked  Dane,  as  he  and 
Lyra  sauntered  home. 

Lyra  reflected  a  moment. 

"  I  rather  think  I  like  him,  though  he  is  so  anxious  to  show 
that  he  hates  me  and  all  my  sex;"  and  she  smiled. 

Dane  laughed,  then  sighed. 

"  Poor  old  chap!  Just  think  what  cause  he  has,  and  don't 
be  hard  on  him,  dear." 

"  I  won't  be  hard  on  him,"  she  said.  "  But  I  should  like 
to  remind  him  tha&all  women  are  not  wicked." 

Lord  St.  Aubyn  came  to  dinner.  He  looked  very  tall  and 
still  more  distinguished  in  his  evening-dress,  and  with  Dane  he 
was  genial  enough,  but  to  Lyra  his  manner,  though  the  per- 
fection of  courtesy,  was  marked  by  a  cold  reserve. 

Most  women  would  have  resented  it,  but  Lyra,  though  she 
was  accustomed  to  the  pnftnpt  homage  and  lavish  admiration 
of  her  husband's  male  friends,  bore  it  with  a  meekness  and 
amiability  which  touched  Dane  to  the  core  and  filled  him  with 
gratitude. 

After  dinner  Dane  and  Lord  St.  Aubyn.  adjourned  to  the 
balcony,  and  Lyra  curled  herself  up  in  a  corner,  with  a  novel. 
She  was  so  engrossed  in  it  that  she  did  not  hear  Lord  bt. 
Aubyn  approach  until  he  was  standing  in  front  of  her.  ^ 

"  I  have  come  to  say  good-night  and  to  thank  you,     he 


343  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

gald — "  to  thank  you  not  only  for  *  the  pleasant  evening/  but 
for  your  gracious  self-sacrifi*. " 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  Lyra  asked,  with  a  smile. 

He  looked  down  at  her  innocently  wide-opened  eyes,  with  a 
guhdued  sadness  in  his  smile. 

"  Do  you  think  that  I  do  not  appreciate  the  fact  that  you 
have  surrendered  your  husband  to  me  for  a  whole  evening, 
Lady  Dane?" 

"  Oh,  but  Dane  is  so  glad  to  see  you,  to  have  you  with 
him/*  she  said,  naively. 

He  smiled  outright. 

"  I  am  properly  rebuked/'  he  said,  gravely.  "  I  forgot,  in 
my  own  pleasure  at  meeting  him,  that  your  sacrifice  was  en- 
tirely on  his  account — as  it  should  be/'  he  added. 

"  What  are  you  two  discussing?"  said  Dane,  coming  up  to 
them.  "  Look  here,  Lyra,  Lord  St.  Aubyn  insists  upon  clear- 
ing out  of  Rome  to-morrow,  because  he  says  he  is  afraid  that 
he  is  de  trop,  and  might  spoil  our  honey-moon.  I  tell  him 
that  he  won't  do  anything  of  the  sort;  but  he  is,  and  always 
was,  as  obstinate  as  a  donkey.  Just  see  what  you  can  do  with 
him.  Tell  him  that  when  we  find  him  in  the  way,  we'll  in- 
form him  of  the  fact.  Or,  look  here,  you  might  threaten  that 
we'll  go  with  him,  wherever  it  is  he's  going.  It's  all  one  to 
us." 

Lyra  looked  from  one  to  the  other  with  a  smile,  from 
Dane's  handsome,  happy,  debonair  face  to  Lord  St.  Aubyn's 
grave  one. 

"  I  will  tell  Lord  St.  Aubyn  anything  you  please,  Dane," 
she  said. 

"  There  you  are!"  he  exclaimed,  as  if  that  settled  the  mat- 
ter. "  You  can't  go  after  that,  my  dear  fellow." 

"  No,"  said  Lord  St.  Aubyn,  quietly. 

He  did  not  go,  and  after  three  or  four  days  he  ceased  to  talk 
of  going,  much  to  Dane's  delight.  For  the  first  two  or  three 
days  Lyra  saw  little  of  him,  he  and  Dane  going  off  for  walks 
upon  which  she  declined,  quite  pleasantly,  to  accompany  them. 
On  the  fourth,  St.  Aubyn  himself  asked  her. 

"It  is  a  question  of  your  coming  or  my  going.  I  did  not 
remain  that  I  might  rob  you  of  your  husband's  society,  Lady 
Dane,"  for  he,  too,  had  dropped  into  the  habit  of  calling  her 
by  Dane's  Christian  name. 

"  Very  well,"  she  said,  and  ran  to  put  her  hat  on. 

On  the  fifth  day,  St.  Aubyn,  after  a  long  spell  of  silence— 
the  two  men  were  smoking  their  uf  ter-dinner  cigars  in  the 
balcony — said; 


ONCE    IK    A    LIFE.  243 

"  Done,  you  ought  to  be  a  happy  man!" 

"  I  is,"  said  Dane,  laconically. 

"Yes."  St.  Aubyn  sighed.  "She  is  a  good  woman, 
Dane." 

Dane  nodded. 

"  Just  found  it  out,  old  man?" 

"  Yes,"  said  St.  Aubyn.  "  This  morning  I  wandered  into 
that  old  church  by  the  second  bridge.  I  thought  I  was  all 
alone  " — he  paused — "  then  I  saw  your  wife.  She  was  kneel- 
ing with  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands." 

Dane  nodded. 

"  Yes;  Lyra  is  fond  of  dropping  into  the  quiet  old  churches," 
he  said,  his  voice  soft  and  tender.  "  Well?" 

"  Presently,"  went  on  St.  Aubyn,  in  a  low  voice,  "  a  wom- 
an came  in  with  a  child  in  her  arms.  It  was  a  poor,  dirty 
little  wretch,  and  in  pain,  most  likely,  for  it  cried  and  wailed. 
The  woman  tried  to  quiet  it,  but  I  suppose  the  poor  little 
thing  wanted  food,  for  it  wouldn't  be  soothed.  Your  wife 
heard  it."  He  paused.  "  She  got  up  and  went  to  the  mother, 
and  asked  her  to  let  her  have  the  child,  and  nursed  it — dirt 
and  all.  Money  passed,  no  doubt,  for  from  where  I  stood  be- 
hind a  pillar  I  heard  the  woman  blessing  her.  But  it  wasn't 
the  gift  of  the  money.  Any  one  could  have  played  the  Lady 
Bountiful.  It  was  " — he  smoked  fiercely — "  it  was  the  look 
on  your  wife's  face,  as  she  pressed  the  little  one  to  her  bosom, 
that  went  home  to  me.  It  was  the  face  of  an  angel— a  pitiful, 
child-loving  angel,  Dane!" 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  for  Dane  said  nothing. 
That  Lyra — Ms  Lyra — was  an  angel  was  no  news  to  him. 

"  It  made  me  think,"  Lord  St.  Aubyn  went  on,  in  a  low 
voice,  "  of  that  other  woman — the  woman  who  had  taught  rate 
to  hate  her  sex,  and  for  one  moment — God  forgive  me! — I 
envied  you,  Dane — yes,  I  envied  you!" 

Dane  put  out  his  hand  and  let  it  fall  gently  upon  his 
friend's. 

"  Take  care  of  her,"  said  St.  Aubyn,  almost  sternly.  "  She 
is  worth  cherishing."  Then  he  took  his  hat  and  walked  out. 

From  that  day  his  manner  toward  Lyra  changed.  :t  was 
cold  and  repellent  no  longer,  but  eloquent  of  a  tender,  re- 
spectful, almost  reverential  devotion.  But  it  was  a  devotion 
that  was  never  obtrusive.  When  others  were  with  her— and 
the  English  colony  was  particularly  attentive  to  Lady  Dane, 
and  made  much  of  her— he  disappeared  or  kept  hi  the  back- 
ground, But  when  he  was  alone  with  her  and  Dane  he 


244  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

seemed  to  slip  more  naturally  and  easily  into  the  position  of 
watch-dog  and  constant  friend. 

Dane,  as  has  been  remarked,  was — well,  of  a  somewhat  in- 
dolent disposition.  Your  truly  healthy,  happy  man  is  apt  to 
be  lazy.  Why  should  he  be  otherwise?  The  world  was  made 
for  him-  So  it  happened  that  when  Lyra  wanted  a  book  from 
the  library,  it  was  Lord  St.  Aubyn  who  fetched  it  for  her,  and 
selected  it.  It  was  he  who,  when  she  was  going  out,  consulted 
the  skies  and  found  the  sun-shade  or  umbrella.  It  was  he  who 
appeared  on  the  balcony  with  a  fleecy  wrap  on  his  arm,  and 
the  remark  that  the  night  air  was  chilly;  but  he  always  gave 
the  wrap  to  Dane  to  put  round  her. 

All  the  stores  of  his  remarkable  memory  were  placed  at  her 
service.  If  the  three  walked  out  together,  it  was  he  who  was 
ready  to  answer  her  questions  as  to  this  statue  or  that  ruin. 
He  planned  drives  and  moonlight  excursions,  and  wherever 
they  went  he  was  always  thoughtful  of  her  comfort  and  con- 
venience. 

Dane  noticed  the  change  in  him,  and  one  day  "  chaffed  " 
Lyra  upon  it. 

"It  is  Una  and  the  lion  over  again,"  he  said.  "  Really, 
you  ought  to  be  very  proud,  my  dear.  I've  never  seen  him 
even  decently  civil  to  a  woman  since — since  his  great  trouble. 
But  I  don't  suppose  you  are  even  grateful.  You  women  think 
it  only  the  proper  thing  for  a  man  to  chain  himself  to  your 
chariot  wheels." 

To  his  surprise,  the  eyes  she  lifted  to  him  were  tearful  and 
almost  reproachful. 

"  Don't  say  that,  Dane,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "  Do 
you  think  I  haven't  noticed  Lord  St.  Aubyn's  kindness?  Oh, 
yes,  yes!  and  I  am  grateful,  indeed  I  am.  It  makes  me  so 
happy,  ah,  so  happy,  to  think  that  my  husband's  friend  should 
be  mine  also!" 

"  Well,  you  needn't  cry,  if  you  are  happy,"  he  said,  gently, 
penitently.  "  What  a  tender  heart  it  is!"  and  he  drew  her 
face  down  and  kissed  her. 

"  F«a  not  crying,"  she  said,  mendaciously,  as  she  covertly 
wiped  ner  eyes.  "  But  I  do  pity  him  so  much,  Dane.  Think 
what  he  must  feel  every  time  he  sees  us  so  happy.  You  are 
happy,  Dane?" 

"  Slightly." 

"  Think,  when  he  sees  us,  how  it  must  remind  him  of  his 
own  past  happiness,  lost  forever!  Dane,  he  must  be  a  good 
man,  or  he  would  hate  us$  he  could  not  bear  to  see  us." 

"  Well,  he  doesn't  hate  YOU,   at  any  rate,"   said  Dane, 


ONCE    IN    A   LIFE.  245 

"  Poor  old  chap!  he  has  looked  something  like  his  old  self 
this  last  week  or  two.  I  teU  you  what:  we'll  take  him  back 
with  us  to  Highfield,  if  I  have  to  drag  him  there!" 

St.  Aubyn  came  in  almost  at  the  moment. 

"  I  thought  Lady  Dane  wanted  to  go  to  the  Gallery  this 
morning/'  he  said,  eying  Dane's  recumbent  figure  and  slipper- 
shod  feet. 

"  Did  she?  Did  you?  Oh,  yes;  I  heard  you  two  talking  of 
it.  All  right;  give  me  five  minutes." 

He  was  not  longer  than  fifteen;  but  when  they  had  started, 
he  pulled  up  suddenly. 

"  I've  left  a  letter  I  wanted  to  post,"  he  said.  "  I'll  catch 
you  up  in  a  minute  or  two. 

"  I'll  go  back  for  it,"  said  Lyra,  at  once,  and  as  a  matter  of 
course. 

"  No,  no;  I'll  go,"  said  St.  Aubyn,  equally  as  a  matter  of 
course. 

Dane  laughed. 

"  You  should  both,  or  either  of  you,  go;  but  I've  forgotten 
where  I've  left  it,"  he  said.  "  Walk  on  and  I'll  catch  you." 

They  strolled  on.  It  was  a  lovely  morning,  and  the  streets 
were  crowded.  They  waited  at  the  turning  to  the  Gallery,  and 
St.  Aubyn  seized  the  opportunity  to  open  her  sun-shade  for 
her. 

"  Shall  we  go  in?"  he  said.  "  Dane  will  go  straight  to  the 
Gallery." 

They  went  down  the  narrow  street,  and  had  almost  reached 
the  massive  entrance  when  a  small  crowd  came  from  the 
mouth  of  one  of  the  alleys. 

It  was  the  usual  street  crowd,  a  policeman  towering  in  the 
midst.  St.  Aubyn  took  Lyra's  arm  and  drew  her  into  a  door- 
way to  let  them  pass.  As  he  did  so,  Lyra  saw  that  the  police- 
man had  hold  of  a  man.  He  was  a  disreputable-looking  ob- 
ject, and  apparently  tipsy.  His  face  was  cut  and  bleeding, 
and  his  seedy  clothes  muddy. 

"Oh!  what  has  he  done?"  she  said  to  St.  Aubyn. 

Before  he  could  answer,  the  man,  who  had  heard  her  voice, 
stopped  and  struggled  in  a  feeble  kind  of  way  with  his  captor. 

"  There's — there's  an  Englishman — there,  with  that  lady!" 
he  said,  hoarsely.  "  Let  me  speak  to  them;  they'll  answer 
for  me.  Let  me  speak  to  them,  I  tell  you!" 

The  policeman  took  a  firmer  grip,  and,  with  a  shrug  of  the 
shoulders,  was  pushing  him.  irast,  when  Lyra,  always  swift  to 
pity,  said: 


246  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

"  Oh,  let  him  stop!  Lord  St.  Aubyn,  let  him  speak  to  us. 
He  is  an  Englishman,  and — and  in  trouble!" 

St.  Aubyn  frowned,  not  from  hardness  of  heart,  but  from 
annoyance  that  she  should  be  brought  in  contact  with  this  dis- 
reputable business. 

"  Oh,  see,  he  is  so  helpless!'*  she  pleaded. 

The  man  heard  her,  and  made  another  struggle,  only  desir- 
ous of  getting  clear  of  the  affair  as  soon  as  possible. 

St.  Aubyn  stepped  before  her,  as  if  to  shut  her  from  the 
crowd,  and  asked  the  policeman  what  was  the  matter. 

Volubly  he  informed  him  that  the  man  had  been  unable  to 
pay  his  lodgings,  and  defrauded  an  honest  landlady,  and  in 
resisting  ejectment  had  cut  his  head.  He  added  that  the  man 
was  "  full  of  wine." 

"  What  does  he  say?  What  has  the  man  done?"  asked 
Lyra. 

St.  Aubyn  told  her  in  a  few  rapid  sentences,  and  instantly 
her  hand  went  for  her  purse. 

In  doing  so,  she  inadvertently  stepped  slightly  forward.  The 
man  saw  her,  stared  for  a  moment,  then  uttered  a  strange  cry, 
and,  to  the  not  unnatural  amazement  of  the  policeman,  began 
to  drag  him  away. 

St.  Aubyn  put  Lyra's  purse  aside. 

"  Go  into  the  Gallery!"  he  said,  in  the  quiet  tone  of  com- 
mand which  few  women  can  resist. 

With  a  pitying  glance  at  the  prisoner — whose  face  was  now 
turned  away  from  her — she  obeyed. 

St.  Aubyn  inquired  the  amount  of  the  debt,  and  placed 
some  money  in  the  man's  hand.  The  man  took  it,  with  a 
strange  look  of  bewilderment,  tried  to  mutter  some  words  of 
thanks,  then,  as  the  policeman  released  him,  staggered  back  to 
the  alley  and  disappeared. 

St.  Aubyn  entered  the  Gallery  and  found  Lyra. 

"  Is  it  all  right?"  she  said.     "  Have  they  let  him  go?" 

:<  Why  do  you  distress  yourself  on  account  of  a  wretch  who 
doesn't  deserve  a  moment's  thought  of  yours?"  he  said,  al- 
most rebukingly. 

She  smiled,  her  eyes  still  moist  and  pitying. 

"  He  looked  so  miserable  and  unhappy,  and  " — she  lauj 
softly,  apologetically — "  I,  too,  have  been  miserable  and  un- 
happy 1'^ 


laughed 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE,'  247 


CHAPTER  XXXni. 

LOED  DANE  and  his  charming  viscountess,  as  the  Roman 
papers  were  given  to  calling  Lyra,  came  to  London  hi  May, 
and,  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  course,  St.  Aubyn  accompanied 
them.  They  did  not  intend  to  remain  throughout  the  season, 
for  neither  Dane  nor  Lyra  would  have  bartered  the  meadows 
of  sweet,  soft  June  for  the  garish  gayeties  of  London  ball- 
rooms; and  it  was  arranged  that,  after  a  stay  in  town  of  some 
six  or  eight  weeks,  they  should  go  down  to  Highfield.  During 
their  short  London  season  the  earl  had  offered  them  house- 
room  at  the  huge  family  mansion  at  Lancaster  Gate;  and  in 
anticipation  of  their  acceptance,  he  had  prepared  a  suite  of 
rooms  for  Lyra,  which,  by  the  costliness  of  their  luxury,  ab- 
solutely appalled  her. 

Dane  laughed  as  she  sunk  into  an  easy-chair  covered  with 
priceless  Oriental  brocade,  and  gazed  round  the  exquisitely 
decorated  and  appointed  apartments — bedroom,  dressing- 
room,  boudoir,  all  adjoining. 

"  Rather  gorgeous  and  impressive,  isn't  it?"  he  said. 

"Oh,  Dane!"  she  could  only  gasp,  "how  beautiful,  how 
lovely!  And  how  good  he  is  to  me!  Think  of  him — and  all  he 
has  to  worry  him — thinking  of  me,  and  taking  so  much  trou- 
ble; for  Dosie  says  that  he  chose  the  things  and  saw  to  it  all 
himself." 

Dane  smiled.     He  was  pleased,  of  course. 

"That's  the  guv'nor  all  over,,"  he  said;  "he  never  does 
things  by  halves.  It  is  his  little  way  of  showing  you  that  he 
likes  you. ' ' 

"  Little  way!*'  murmured  Lyra,  as  she  looked  round  the 
rooms,  at  the  rare  furniture,  the  rich  hangings,  the  inlaid 
cabinets  of  unique  curios,  the  hundred  and  one  knickknacks  of 
bric-a-brac  which  are  so  dear  to  the  heart  of  every  true  wom- 
an, and  looking  at  them,  remembered  the  costly  presents  of 
gems  which  the  old  man  had  made  her. 

Dane  laughed  again. 

"Goodness  only  knows  what  he  has  done  with  Highneld. 
Dosie  hinted  that  he  had  transformed  it  into  a  miniature  Star- 
minster.  But  I  accept  it  all  as  my  due— as  a  slight  acknowl- 
edgment of  iny  wisdom  in  choosing  the  dearest  little  girl  m 
the  world;"  and  he  put  his  ami  round  her  head  and  pressed  it 
against  his  heart.  "  is  ow  rouse  yourself  and  get  your  war- 


248  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

paint  on,  or  you'll  be  late  for  dinner,  and  shock  the  always 
punctual  Mrs.  Fanshawe.  You've  been  sitting  there  like  a 
wax  figure  at  Madame  Tussaud's  for  the  last  ten  minutes." 

Five  minutes  afterward,  he  called  out  from  the  adjoining 
room,  where  he  was  vigorously  brushing  his  hair: 

"  St.  Aubyn  dines  with  us  to-night,  I  suppose?" 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  so!  Of  course,"  she  replied;  and  she 
laughed.  "  Didn't  you  ask  him?" 

"No,"  he  said;  "  I  left  that  to  you.  I  took  it  that  you 
would  be  certain  to  do  so.  Never  mind.  I'll  look  him  up  at 
the  club  and  bring  him  home." 

"  Oh,  do!"  she  said.  "  He  would  feel  so  solitary,  dining 
alone  the  first  night." 

Dane  smiled. 

"  I  dare  say  he  would  find  one  or  two  other  fellows  at  the 
club,"  he  said.  "  But  I'll  tell  him  you  asked  him  out  of 
pity.  He  won't  be  offended,  perhaps." 

Lyra  smiled. 

"  I  can't  imagine  Lord  St  Aubyn  offended  with  me." 

"  In-deed!" 

He  laughed  with  intense  enjoyment  of  her  naivett. 

St.  Aubyn  was  apparently  not  offended,  and  came  home 
with  Dane  to  what  was  just  a  little  family  party,  including 
Dosie  and  Martin,  Mrs.  Leslie  and  the  earl. 

The  meeting  between  the  old  man,  who  was  the  first  to  ar- 
rive, and  Lyra  was  a  very  warm  one. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  he  said,  as  he  kissed  her  forehead,  "  so 
you  have  been  very  happy.  I  didn't  ask,  you  see.  I  could 
read  it  in  your  face." 

"  Very,  very  happy!"  she  murmured,  giving  him  a  kiss. 
"  I  am  glad  you  have  come  before  the  others,  because  I  wanted 
to  thank  you  for  all  you  have  done  for  me — my  pretty  rooms!" 

He  patted  her  shoulder,  and  smiled  down  at  her  with  fa- 
therly affection. 

"  Not  a  word  of  thanks,  my  dear.  I  wish  you  knew  how 
pleasant  an  amusement  it  has  been  to  me." 

"  Have  you  seen  Dane  yet?"  she  asked.  "I — I  think  he 
has  been  happy." 

He  laughed  softly. 

!"  "  Yes;  1  met  him  sauntering  along  Pall  Mall  just  now  as  if 
the  world  were  the  j  oiliest  of  all  possible  places  and  had  been 
specially  constructed  for  him.  I  didn't  ask  him,  either,  if  he 
were  happy.  It  was  just  as  unnecessary  as  it  was  in  your 
<aise.  And  so  you  are  going  down  to  Highfield  in  June?" 

'*  Yes,"  she  said.     "  We  are  both  so  fond  of  the  country, 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  249 

and — that  is,  we  will  stay  in  London,  if  you  wish  it/'  she  broke 
off  gently,  and  looking  up  at  him. 

"  Heaven  forbid,  my  dear!"  he  said  at  once.  "  I  wouldn't 
have  you  risk  those  rose-tinted  cheeks  and  bright  eyes  for  the 
best  season  ever  held.  No — no;  you  are  quite  right.  We 
miserable  politicians  are  bound  to  sacrifice  the  summer,  but 
there  is  no  need  for  you  and  Dane  to  do  it.  And  so  you  met 
St.  Aubyn,  and  have  brought  him  back  with  you.  I  am  glad 
of  that.  He  is  a  good  fellow.  Poor  man!"  Dane  has  told 
you  something  of  his  great  trouble,  I  suppose,  my  dear?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  softly,  pityingly. 

The  old  man  nodded. 

"  A  good  woman  is  beyond  rubies,"  he  murmured,  "  a  bad 
one  is  the  devil's  counterfeit  of  an  angel!  After  that  epigram 
I'll  go  and  dress;"  and  he  limped  off.  "  I  hear  Dosie  s  voice 
in  the  hall,  and  I  should  be  de  trop;"  and  he  laughed. 

The  two  women,  after  the  first  embrace,  regarded  each 
other  critically,  as  is  the  manner  of  brides  on  meeting  after 
the  honey-moon. 

"  My  dear  Lyra,  how  well  you  look!"  Lady  Theodosia  said. 

"  Why,  that  is  what  I  was  going  to  say  to  you!"  exclaimed 
Lyra,  as  she  drew  her  to  a  seat  beside  her. 

Lady  Theodosia  smiled. 

"  I  am  very  well,"  she  said.  "  But  you  look  more  than 
well.  You  are" — she  hunted  for  a  word— "radiant!  I'm 
not  surprised  at  the  fuss  they  made  of  you  abroad,  and  1 
think  the  papers  are  quite  correct  in  prophesying  a  brilliant 
triumph  for  you  here  in  London.  I  see  it  hasn't  spoiled  you, 
Lyra,  dear,"  she  added,  as  Lyra  blushed.  "  Martin  and  I  were 
sure  you  would  not  be  changed,  that  all  the  admiration  and 
flattery  in  the  world  could  not  make  you  vain." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  not!"  laughed  Lyra.  '  But  I  won't  say  as 
much  for  your  and  Martin's  praises.  And  you  are  quite 
happy?  But,  as  the  earl  says,  I  need  not  ask  that." 

"  Yes,"  said  Dosie,  in  her  grave  way,  "  we  are  quite  happy; 
but  indeed  we  haven't  time  to  be  miserable,  even  if  we  were 
hiclined.  Since  Martin  took  the  living  the  work  has  been 
ever  so  much  harder  than  it  was  before.  You  know  that  1 
have  always  felt  that  a  parson's  wife  should  really  be  her  hus- 
band's helpmate,  and  I  am  trying  to  do  my  duty, 
think  of  letting  Castle  Towers  and  going  to  live  in  the  old 
vicarage;  but  Martin  would  not  consent, 
enough  to  say  that  though  he  should  prefer  it,  he  would  not 
let  me  deprive  myself  of  the  luxuries  I  have  been  accustomed 
to.  As  if  I  cared  one  jot  whether  I  lived  in  a  large  house  or 


350  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE." 

a  small  one,  or  had  two  servants  or  twenty,  a  pony-phaeton  or 
a  carriage  and  pair.  No;  I  should  like  to  lead  the  life  of  an 
ordinary  clergyman's  wife,  hut  " — she  sighed — "  Martin  will 
not  hear  of  it. " 

"  I  always  thought  Mr.  Fanshawe  as  wise  as  he  is  good," 
said  Lyra. 

Lady  Theodosia's  face  lighted  up. 

"  Oh,  if  you  only  knew  how  good  he  is,  my  dear!"  she 
murmured.  "  But  how  selfish  I  am!  Tell  me  about  Dane." 

"  Oh,  Dane  is  quite  well,  and  as  wicked  as  ever,"  said  Lyra, 
laughing. 

Dosie  looked  into  her  eye  and  nodded  apprehendingly;  then 
taking  her  hand  and  kissing  her,  she  whispered: 

"  My  dear,  what  a  terrible  mistake  you  and  I  nearly  made! 
Think  if  I  had  gone  on  and — and  robbed  you  of  him!" 

Lyra  flushed  and  pressed  her  hand. 

"  Yes,  and  robbed  Martin  of  yourself!"  she  whispered  back. 

It  was  a  very  pleasant,  happy  little  reunion,  and  Lord  St. 
Aubyn  was  not  allowed  to  consider  himself  in  the  way.  He 
and  the  old  earl  had  a  good  deal  to  say  to  each  other,  and  St. 
Aubyn  spoke  scarcely  half  a  dozen  times  to  Lyra;  but  every 
now  and  then  his  eyes  rested  on  her  with  the  grave  regard 
which,  often  as  she  met  it,  never  caused  her  any  embarrass- 
ment; and  once,  when  telling  Dosie  of  some  incident  that  had 
occurred  during  their  travels,  she  forgot  the  name  of  the 
place,  and  turned  to  ask  Dane,  who,  engaged  with  Mrs.  Les- 
lie, did  not  hear  her,  St.  Aubyn  quickly  supplied  the  required 
information,  as  if  he  had  been  listening;  and  when  on  leaving 
the  room  she  said,  "Oh!  I  have  forgotten  my  fan,"  he  held 
it  out  to  her,  just  as  her  maid  might  have  done. 

Lady  Theodosia  remarked  on  the  change  in  him. 

"  You  and  Dane  have  quite  reformed  Lord  St.  Aubyn," 
she  said,  with  a  smile.  "  He  has  become  positively  attentive 
and  polite.  He  used  to  be — " 

"  A  perfect  bear!"  put  in  Mrs.  Leslie,  laughing.  "  The 
last  time  we  met  him  he  stalked  away  from  us  as  if  we  were 
plague-stricken. " 

Lyra  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 

"Is  he  so  changed?  He  has  always  been  so  kind  and 
thoughtful  since  I  have  known  him,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Leslie  laughed  again. 

"So  you  take  the  credit  of  his  reformation,  my  dear,"  she 
Baid. 
"I?"  exclaimed  Lyra,  opening  her  eyes.      " Why,  what 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  251 

have  I  to  do  with  it?    He  is  Dane's  friend.     If  he  is  changed. 
it  must  be  through  Dane." 

"  Yes/'  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  with  her  old,  pleasant  irony; 
'*  the  force  of  example.  We  all  know  what  a  Chesterfield  of 
attention  and  courtesy  Lord  Dane  is." 

There  was  a  general  laugh  at  this  sally,  and  then  the  three 
women  began  to  talk  of  the  coming  season. 

"  You  have  a  terrible  business  before  you,  my  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Leslie.  "  You  will  be  overwhelmed  with  invitations, 
and  will  have  to  work  like  a  slave — the  slave  of  fashion — while 
you  are  here.  No  more  free-and-easy  wanderings  about  con- 
tinental towns,  no  more  tete-a-tete  dinners  at  restaurants  with 
Lord  Dane. 

Lyra  laughed. 

"  Oh,  it  was  nearly  always  a  trio!"  she  said,  naively. 
"  Lord  St.  Aubyn  generally  dined  with  us  " — then  she  sighed 
— "  and  we  were  so  happy!  I  am — I  am  almost  sorry  we  came 
to  London  at  all,  if  it  is  to  be  altogether  different.  Dosie,  you 
will  have  to  stay  and  help  me.  I  know  nothing  about  society 
ways— absolutely  nothing— and  I  shall  make  the  most  dread- 
ful mistakes." 

Lady  Theodosia  looked  horrified  at  the  proposal 

"  My  dear  Lyra,"  she  said,  gravely,  "  I  should  be  very 
pleased  to  stay  with  you,  but  "—her  voice  grew  almost  solemn 
— "  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  leave  my  parish— quite  impossi- 
ble." 

Mrs.  Leslie  smiled. 

"  Quite  impossible!"  she  echoed,  with  a  capital  imitation 
of  Lady  Theodosia's  solemnity.      "Don't  you  know,  Lady 
Dane,  that  if  she  left  the  parish  the  church  roof  would  fall  m, 
the  old  women  would  die,  the  school  children  play  truant, 
and,  in  fact,  the  whole  place  rush  headlong  to  rum.-'    But  1 
don't  think  you  need  be  afraid  of  making  mistakes, 
you  made  them,  the  world  would  deem  them  delightful,  ai 
pronounce  them  the  fashion.     My  dear,  famous  persons  are 
incapable  of    mistakes;    their  faults  become   virtues,   then 
crimes  little  blemishes  which  prove  human  and  not  quit 
vine.     Would  you  like  me  to  stay  with  you?    I  will,  if  you 
like." 

Lyra  jumped  at  the  proposal.  v*^iw 

"Why,  will  you,  really?"  she  exclaimed,  delightedly. 

"  Yes,  if  Dosie  will  spare  me,  and  I'm  sure  she  will," 

Whyfof  course,"  said  Lady  Theodosia.     "  But  the  ide» 


252  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

that  Lyra  should  make  '  mistakes,'  as  she  calls  it,  is  ridicu- 
lous." 

So  it  was  arranged  that  Mrs.  Leslie  should  remain  at  Lan- 
caster Gate,  and  Lyra  commenced  "  the  campaign,"  as  Dane 
called  it,  with  that  experienced  woman  of  the  world  at  her 
side. 

From  the  very  commencement  the  campaign  proved  a  tri- 
umph. For  once  the  heralds  of  fame  had  not  exaggerated, 
and  at  Lyra's  first  ball,  the  Duchess  of  Torchester's,  the  first 
notes  of  victory  were  sounded  with  no  uncertain  tones.  That 
great  lady,  the  duchess  herself,  expressed  an  emphatic  ap- 
proval of  Lord  Dane's  wife. 

"  She  is  as  lovely  as  they  said,  and  twice  as  sweet,"  she  de- 
clared; and  during  the  evening  she  took  an  opportunity  of 
congratulating  Dane. 

'  You  are  a  most  fortunate  man,  Lord  Dane,"  she  said. 
"  Your  wife  is  the  dearest  little  woman  " — Lyra  was  every 
inch  as  tall  as  her  grace,  by  the  way — "  and  perfectly  irresis- 
tible. I  see  she  has  already  got  all  the  best  men  round  her,  but 
I  don't  think  she  will  be  spoiled." 

"  Thank  you,  duchess,"  said  Dane,  in  his  outright  fashion. 
"  No,  I  don't  think  she  will  be  spoiled.  I've  given  her  a 
good  trial  canter." 

Her  grace  laughed. 

"  Oh,  any  one  can  see  that  you  are  absurdly  fond  of  her," 
she  retorted.  "  And  they  tell  me — "  She  stopped  and 
laughed  again. 

"  Don't  mind  my  feelings,  duchess.     Pray,  go  on." 

"  Well,  they  say  that  it  is  six  of  one  and  half  a  dozen  of  the 
other." 

"  Yes,"  said  Dane,  with  mock  gravity — "  yes,  I  think  she 
is  fond  of  me.  But  you  mustn't  be  hard  upon  her.  It  is  the 
only  instance  of  bad  taste  of  which  she  has  been  guilty." 

The  duchess  smiled.  She  and  Dane  were  old  friends,  and 
she  enjoyed  his  mock  cynicism. 

"  She  is  too  good  for  you,  Dane,"  she  said. 

"  So  one  or  two  other  persons  have  remarked  to  me,"  he 
said,  placidly;  "  but  I  shall  think  it's  true,  impossible  as  it 
sounds,  if  you  say  so." 

The  duchess's  ball  was  followed  by  a  whole  string  of  others, 
and  Lyra  was  plunged  into  the  whirlpool  of  London  fashioii- 
able  life.  Concerts,  dinners,  receptions,  all  the  diversions 
which  go  to  make  up  Vanity  Fair  in  full  swing  seemed  to  ab- 
sorb all  her  time. 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFB.  353 

"  Why,  it  is  hard  work/'  she  remarked,  smilingly,  to  Mrs. 
Leslie — "  very  hard  work!" 

"Yes,"  assented  that  lady,  "and  not  particularly  good 
pay.  My  dear,  some  of  these  days  the  upper  classes  will 
strike  for  an  eight-hours'  day  and  won't  be  happy  till  they 
get  it." 

Dane,  after  a  tune,  did  not  always  accompany  the  ladies, 
but  he  generally  "  dropped  in  "  at  the  small  hours,  and  per- 
haps remained  to  bring  them  home.  Lord  St.  Aubyn,  how- 
ever, was  present  at  nearly  every  fashionable  function.  He 
never  danced,  but  it  always  happened  that  when  Lyra  discov- 
ered she  was  tired  and  wanted  to  rest,  she  also  found  that 
Lord  St.  Aubyn  was  near  her,  and  ready  to  take  her  to  some 
comparatively  quiet  and  cool  spot,  and  it  was  he  who  generally 
had  her  fan,  her  bouquet,  her  wrap,  when  they  were  missing. 

His  face  had  lost  something  of  its  sadness,  though  the  expres- 
sion of  weariness  was  still  observable  in  his  eyes,  and  he  was 
still  very  silent  and  reserved.  Even  with  Lyra  herself  he  was 
not  talkative,  and  it  was  not  unusual  for  them  to  sit  out  a 
dance  in  perfect  silence.  But  if  she  spoke,  his  dreamy,  ab- 
stracted manner  vanished  in  a  moment,  and  he  was  all  attention 
to  her  lightest  word,  and  on  the  alert  to  gratify  her  smallest 
wish. 

For  a  tune  there  was  a  little  whisper,  not  of  scandal,  but  of 
gossip  and  curiosity,  but  the  most  inveterate  slanderer  could 
find  nothing  in  Lyra's  manner  or  conduct  to  excuse  calumny. 
Her  obvious  affection  for  her  husband  would  have  rendered 
any  aspersions  ridiculous. 

To  all  her  admirers — and  their  name  was  legion— her  man- 
ner was  the  same.  She  was  kindness,  sweetness  itself;  was 
grateful  for  their  attention,  patient  with  their  flattery— and 
that  was  all. 

Poor  young  Clarence  Hoare  declared,  with  something  sus- 
piciously like  tears  in  his  eyes,  that  if  she  would  only  be  angry 
with  him,  he  could  bear  it  better  than  her  unvarying  kind- 
ness, her  smiling  unbelief  of  his  devotion. 

"  She  is  such  an  angel  of  modesty,  so— so  humble,  don't 
you  know— dash  it!  no,  that's  not  the  word,  but  I  can't  get 
the  right  one— that  she  can't  see  that  she's  the  loveliest  and 
best  woman  in  the  world;  and  she  only  smiles  when— when 
you  try  and  tell  her  so." 

Lord  St.  Aubyn  paid  no  compliments.     He  had  never  on< 
hinted  at  her  beauty,  or  praised  a  dress  or  an  ornament.     All 
the  world  might  have  heard  every  word  he  had  ever  said  1 
her;   and  yet  Lyra  could  always  tell  when  he  liked  a  new 


254  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

dress,  and  unconsciously  she  got  into,  the  habit  of  consulting 
his  eyes  when  she  was  doubtful  of  some  new  costume  or  ar- 
rangement of  jewelry.  She  had  long  ago  discovered  the  fu- 
tility of  asking  Dane's  opinion  on  such  matters.  In  his  eyes 
she  was  just  perfect  in  whatever  she  wore,  and  there  was  an 
end  of  it. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

DANE  had  sent  down  to  Starminster  for  a  couple  of  hack? 
for  her,  and  Lyra  now  rode  in  the  park  each  morning.  She 
had  learned  very  quickly,  nominally  under  the  tutorship  of  a 
riding-master,  but  really  under  Dane  and  St.  Aubyn's  teach- 
ing. Dane  generally  accompanied  her  in  the  morning  gallop, 
but  not  seldom  St.  Aubyn  rode  on  the  other  side;  and  it  was 
more  often  than  not  he,  instead  of  Dane,  who  examined  her 
horse's  girths  and  bit,  and  put  her  into  the  saddle. 

One  day  St.  Aubyn  bought  a  pair  of  ponies  and  phaeton — 
outbidding  a  Russian  princess,  by  the  way;  but  he  did  not 
present  them  to  Lyra,  and  took  Dane's  check.  Who  was  he 
that  he  should  presume  to  offer  her  a  gift?  But  Lyra  was  as 
grateful  as  if  they  had  indeed  been  a  present. 

"  That  you  should  think  of  me!"  she  said.  "  Is  it  true 
that  the  princess  cried  with  disappointment?" 

"  I  dare  say,"  he  said,  in  his  grave  way. 

"  Oh,  Lord  St.  Aubyn  wouldn't  care  if  all  the  other  women 
in  the  world  were  dissolved  in  tears  if  he  could  make  you 
smile,  Lady  Armitage;  neither  would  I,"  blurted  out  young 
Clarence,  who  happened  to  be  present. 

Lyra  looked  rather  startled,  and  glanced  from  the  boy's 
flushed  face  to  the  grave  one  of  St.  Aubyn;  but  St.  Aubyn 
did  not  flinch. 

"  Mr.  Hoare  thinks  that  he  has  a  pretty  talent  for  epigram, 
Lady  Dane,"  he  said.  "  He  is  not  the  first  man  who  has  made 
a  similar  mistake." 

The  boy  saw  in  a  moment  that  he  had  said  something  more 
than  usually  foolish,  and  colored;  but  he  was  scarcely  pre- 
pared for  the  severe  reprimand  which  he  received  when  Lyra 
had  left  him  and  St.  Aubyn  alone. 

"  No  one,  I  suppose,  can  prevent  you  talking  silly  nonsense 
to  Lady  Dane,  Clarence,"  St.  Aubyn  said,  with  a  sternness  of 
tone  and  eye  that  made  the  boy  wince,  "  but  let  me  ask  you 
not  to  include  me  in  your  folly.  There,  my  boy,"  he  added, 
rather  more  kindly,  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  lad's  shoulder, 
"  don't  look  so  heart-broken.  It  was  only  a  silly  speech,  and 


ON"CTR    1ST    A    LIFE.  265 

silly  speeches  of  that  nature  appear  to  be  the  vogue.  But  don't 
you  think,  Clarence,  that  you  take  a  mean  advantage  of  Lady 
Dane?" 

"  Mean  advantage!  I?"  exclaimed  the  lad,  half  indignant, 
half  remorseful. 

"  Yes,"  said  St.  Aubyn.  "  Most  of  the  women  you  talk  to 
in  that  fashion  either  laugh  at  or  snub  you.  But  Lady  Dane 
never  laughs;  at  most,  she  only  smiles,  and  she  is  always  pa- 
tient and  forbearing.  Respect  her  forbearance  and  patience." 

"  If — if  I  thought  I'd  ever  said  anything  to  offend — give  pain 
to  Lady  Dane,  I'd— I'd  cut  my  tongue  out!"  stammered  the 
lad. 

St.  Aubyn  smiled  down  at  him,  not  contemptuously,  but 
with  a  kindly  pity. 

"  My  dear  Clarence,  I  think  Lady  Dane  scarcely  hears  you; 
I  am  sure  that  she  does  not  remember  one  of  your  pretty 
speeches  two  minutes  after  it  is  delivered.  Keep  your  tongue 
— you'd  miss  it  too  much."  Then,  as  the  lad  turned  away, 
St.  Aubyn's  hand  fell  on  his  shoulder  again  and  gripped  it 
tightly.  "  There,  there!"  he  said,  still  more  kindly.  "  You 
think  me  a  brute,  I  dare  say.  Well,  so  I  am;  but  I  am  not 
such  a  fool  as  to  fail  to  see  that  Lady  Dane  is  too  good  for  the 
nonsense  you  offer  her.  My  boy,  you  and  I  should  approach 
such  a  woman  on  our  knees,  and  not  with  empty  flattery  on 
our  lips;"  and  he  strode  off,  leaving  Clarence  with  something 
of  the  sensation  which  a  man  feels  when  he  has  been  severely 
though  kindly  whipped. 

The  days  sped  by,  the  spring  was  dawning  into  summer, 
and  the  time  came  when,  by  all  the  rules  of  etiquette,  Lady 
Dane  should  give  her  principal  ball.  There  had,  of  course, 
been  many  dinners  and  "  At  Homes,"  but  this  was  a  special 
affair.  For  this  tremendous  function  even  Dosie  had  consented 
to  tear  herself  from  her  beloved  parish  and  its  manifold  duties. 

Lyra  had  by  this  time  become  one  of  those  important  per- 
sonages, "  a  leader  of  fashion,"  and  this  dance  naturally  cre- 
ated a  flutter  of  excitement.  Large  as  was  the  ball-room  in 
the  house  at  Lancaster  Gate,  it  could  not  accommodate  half 
the  persons  who  were  anxious  to  be  present,  and  the  usual 
scrimmage  for  cards  took  place — the  usual  exultation  in  the 
hearts  of°the  successful,  and  more  than  the  usual  heart-burn- 
ings of  those  that  failed. 

A  royal  personage  had  not  only  promised  but  requested 
permission  "  to  be  present,  and  as  Dane,  who  took  the  whole 
thing  in  his  usual  indolent  fashion,  remarked,  the  affair  threat- 
ened to  be  the  "  biggest  show  "  of  the  season. 


256  OKCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

For  this  ball,  Lyra,  who  was  given  to  dressing  very  quietly, 
was  persuaded  to  depart  from  her  usual  rule,  and  a  magnificent 
costume  had  been  ordered  from  Worth.  She  was  to  wear — 
for  the  first  time  since  her  presentation — the  famous  Star- 
minster  diamonds,  and  hi  the  society  papers — some  say  before 
*he  ball — appeared  paragraphs  descriptive  of  this  dress  and 
the  famous  gems,  much  to  Dane's  amusement  and  Lyra's  an- 
noyance. 

"  I  have  a  very  great  mind  not  to  wear  them/'  she  said  to 
Mrs.  Leslie,  who  laughingly  remarked  that  Lyra  was  too  eco- 
nomically minded  to  waste  a  dress  that  had  cost  a  small  fort- 
une. 

The  night,  in  the  first  week  in  June,  was  a  superb  one,  and 
a  large  concourse  of  sightseers  had  collected  as  near  the  en- 
trance of  the  house  as  possible,  eager  to  see  the  guests  as  they 
alighted  from  their  carriages  and  passed  under  the  scarlet 
awning  to  the  ball-room. 

Lyra,  as  she  stood  at  the  door,  receiving  the  brilliant  and 
seemingly  endless  line,  might  be  excused  if  now  and  again  she 
asked  herself  the  question: 

"  Is  this  I — I,  Lyra  Chester  of  the  Mill  Cottage  by  the  Taw, 
or  is  it  some  great  lady  masquerading  in  my  name  and  like-, 
ness?" 

But  whenever  the  strangeness  of  the  change  struck  upon  her 
senses,  she  had  only  to  turn  to  Dane,  who  stood,  a  few  feet 
from  her,  with  her  bouquet  in  his  hand,  and  his  cheery  smile 
on  his  happy  face,  to  realize  that  she  was  the  same  person, 
though  Lyra  Chester  no  longer,  but  Lyra,  Viscountess  Armi- 
tage. 

At  a  little  distance  St.  Aubyn  hovered  about,  in  case  Lyra 
should  "  want "  him,  and  when,  now  and  again,  she  would 
beckon  him  with  a  smile  or  a  wave  of  the  hand,  he  would 
stride  forward  like  a  soldier  at  the  command  of  his  officer,  ex- 
ecute her  order,  and  be  back  again  in  silent,  almost  grim  at- 
tendance. 

"  Getting  tired  about  the  wrist?"  asked  Dane,  in  a  break  of 
the  long  line  of  arrivals.  "  What  a  pity  they  don't  have  a 
dummy  hostess,  a  sort  of  effigy,  with  clock-work  arms  and  a 
mechanical  voice,  which,  whenever  its  hand  was  shook,  would 
squeak  out:  '  Oh!  how  do  you  do?  So  good  of  you  to  come!'  ' 

Lyra  shook  her  head.  She  was  strong  and  not  at  all  tired, 
but  St.  Aubyn  came  forward  with  a  chair. 

"  You  can  sit  down  for  a  few  moments,  at  any  rate,"  he 
said.  "  What  a  mass  of  people  there  are!  You  don't  expect 
them  to  dance,  poor  wretches,  do  you?" 


ONCE    itf    A    LIFE.  257 

Lyra  smiled. 

"  Everybody  seems  to  have  come  who  was  asked,"  she  said 
And  a  great  many  who  were  not,"  remarked  Mrs.  Leslie, 
laughing.        I  only  hope  that  the  '  prince  '  will  be  able  to 
}  make  his  way  through  the  rooms." 

"  How  hot  it  is  getting!"  said  Dane.  "  I'll  just  go  and 
see  if  we  can  take  off  the  roof,  or  knock  out  one  of  the  walls. 
Just  look  after  her,  St.  Aubyn,  will  you?" 

St.  Aubyn  took  the  bouquet  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  his 
place  just  behind  Lyra.  The  rooms  were  hot,  as  Dane  had 
said,  and  the  music  seemed  to  throb  through  the  heat  waves 
and  the  voices  like  the  pulsations  of  a  steam  engine. 

"  Will  you  not  be  glad  to  get  into  the  country?"  St.  Aubyn 
said,  in  his  low  voice.  "  Think  of  the  green  fields  with  to- 
night's moon  on  them,  and  the  thrushes  singing  in  the 
trees!" 

Lyra  sighed  and  laughed. 

"Don't,  please!"  she  said,  wistfully.  "  Oh,  how  do  you 
do,  Lady  Sutcliffe?  How  good  of  you  to  come!"  etc.,  etc. 

Presently  there  rose  the  sound  of  a  cheer  from  the  small 
crowd  outside,  followed  by  the  usual  stir  and  flutter  of  excite- 
ment on  the  stairs,  the  stir  that  communicates  itself  to  the 
ball-rooms  themselves,  and  Lyra  knew  that  the  prince  had  ar- 
rived, to  set  by  his  presence  the  seal  of  absolute  success  on  her 
ball. 

Gracious,  genial,  not  "  affable,"  but  genuinely  amiable  and 
desirous  to  please,  he  made  a  longer  stay  than  usual;  and  with 
perfect  sincerity,  and  the  smile  and  bow  for  which  he  is  fa- 
mous, congratulated  Lyra  upon  the  success  of  her  party. 
Then  when  he  had  taken  his  departure,  and  the  hour  had  be- 
come too  advanced  for  many  fresh  arrivals,  she  was  free  to 
leave  her  post  and  move  about  the  rooms. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Duchess  of  Torchester,  watching  her  as* 
with  a  step  light  and  graceful  as  that  with  which  she  had  gone 
up  the  valley,  trout-rod  in  hand,  Lyra  moved  among  her 
guests — "  yes,  I  don't  know  that  I  remember  a  lovelier  and 
more  fascinating  woman.  She  is  as  full  of  dignity  as  an  em- 
press, and  yet  as  simple-minded  and  modest  as  a  girl — more, 
indeed,  than  some,"  she  added.  "  See  how  she  wears  that 
dress  and  the  Starminster  diamonds.  They  might  be  glass 
beads  for  any  sign  of  consciousness  she  shows.  And  she  is 
unconscious.  There  is  not  a  woman  here  who  could  wear 
them  with  a  better  air  than  she  does.  No  wonder  Lord  Dane 
looks  Droud  and  happy.  See!  he  has  just  gone  to  speak  to 


258  OKCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

her.  Notice  the  way  he  looks  at  her,  the  smile  in  his  eyes, 
and  hers." 

Her  grace  turned  away  and  sighed. 

"  Why  can't  one  always  keep  young?"  she  murmured. 

There  was  a  crush  in  the  supper-rooms,  and  Lyra  hoped 
that  after  supper  some  of  the  guests  would  go;  but  no  one  was 
anxious  to  leave  what  was  evidently  to  prove  the  ball  of  the 
season,  and  the  crowd  was  as  great  after  the  festive  meal  as 
before. 

Lyra,  of  course,  did  not  dance — every  inch  of  room  was 
needed  for  her  guests — and  she  and  St.  Aubyn  were  sitting  at 
the  entrance  to  the  fernery,  not  talking,  but  looking  on,  just 
when  the  ball  was  at  its  height;  and  Lyra  was  gazing  at  the 
faces  as  they  passed,  with  rather  an  absent  air,  when  suddenly 
she  became  conscious  of  one  of  those  shocks  which  are  caused 
by  the  sight  of  a  person  closely  connected  with  a  painful  inci- 
dent in  one's  past  life. 

The  man — or  was  it  a  woman? — she  could  not  tell — had 
passed  in  a  moment  and  been  swallowed  up  in  the  crowd  of 
dancers  and  promenaders;  but  in  that  moment  back  rushed 
upon  Lyra's  mind  the  memory  of  that  awful  day  when  she 
stood  face  to  face  with  Geoffrey  Barle — her  husband — and  de- 
manded the  price  of  her  sacrifice. 

It  came  back  with  a  rush  that  sent  the  blood  to  her  face. 
Why,  she  had  almost  forgotten  the  existence  of  the  man,  had 
almost  learned,  in  her  great  happiness,  to  doubt  the  reality  of 
that  awful  past,  and  now — 

"  It  is  dreadfully  hot,"  said  St.  Aubyn' s  voice  in  her  ear. 
"  Will  you  come  out  on  the  balcony,  quite  into  the  air?" 

"  No,  no,"  she  said.  "  I  may  be  wanted.  Here  is  Dane 
coming  even  now.  What  is  it,  Dane?" 

He  came  up,  wiping  his  forehead,  and  looking,  as  she 
thought,  rather  annoyed. 

"  Has  he  been  here?"  he  asked. 

"He!    Who?" 

"He  insisted  upon  my  bringing  him  to  you.  Confound 
him!"  he  went  on.  "  I  gave  him  the  slip,  but  I  shouldn't  be 
surprised  if  he  turns  up  by  himself.  Eh?  Oh,  I  beg  pardon! 
Of  course,  this  is  my  dance;"  and  away  he  whirled. 

"  What  was  it  Dane  meant?"  she  asked  St.  Aubyn. 

"  I  don't  know.     I'll  go  and  find  him;"  and  he  rose. 

"  No,  no,"  she  said.     "  Stay,  please." 

He  sat  down  again. 

"  I  wish  you  would  come  into  the  air,"  he  said.  "  I  am 
sure  you  are  tired,  Lady  Dane." 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  359 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Not  in  the  least.  I'd  dance  with  Dane,  if  I  might;  but 
I  suppose  I  dare  not." 

"  I  suppose  not,"  he  said,  with  a  smile.  "  I  wish  I  could 
beg  for  one,  but  I  am  only  fit  to  dance  by  myself,  and  at  the 
end  of  a  chain,  like  other  bears.  Oh,  here  is  Dane,  and  he 
has  some  one  with  him!" 

Dane  came  up.  A  man  walked  beside  him,  but  Lyra  scarcely 
glanced  at  the  latter,  until  Dane  said,  with  a  certain  grim  re- 
luctance: 

"  Lyra,  let  me  introduce  my  cousin  Chandos  to  you.  Htj 
has  only  just  come  back  from —  Where  is  it  you've  been 
skul  k — staying  ?' ' 

He  turned  as  he  put  the  question,  or  he  must  have  seen  and 
remarked  his  wife's  face.  With  a  smile  she  had  risen  to  greet 
Dane's  relation;  her  eyes  rested  with  natural  interest  on  his 
face  for  a  moment,  then  she  seemed  turned  to  stone.  She  did 
not  fall,  did  not  scream,  but  stood  with  every  muscle  rigid,  as 
Lot's  wife  might  have  stood  one  moment  before  her  transfor- 
mation into  senseless  salt.  The  blood  slowly  ebbed  from  her 
face,  the  light  faded  from  her  eyes. 

"  I  have  fainted,"  she  thought;  "  yes,  that  is  it.  I  ought 
to  have  gone  with  Lord  St.  Aubyn  into  the  fresh  air.  He  is 
always  wise.  I  have  fainted,  and  I  am  dreaming,  deliriously 
dreaming,  that  this  man,  Dane's  cousin,  is — Geoffrey  Barle." 

Then  slowly,  slowly  the  color  came  back  to  her  face,  the 
light  to  her  eyes.  She  looked  at  him,  looked  him  full  in  the 
face,  then  round  the  room,  and  knew — God  help  her! — that 
she  was  awake  and  conscious,  that  this  man  standing  with 
bowed  head  before  her  was  none  other  than  Geoffrey  Barle, 
her  husband.  Her  husband  I 

She  stretched  out  her  hand  mechanically.  Her  fan  was  in 
it,  and  the  fan  dropped. 

St.  Aubyn  stooped  and  picked  it  up,  and  unobtrusively 
fanned  her. 

"  Your  cousin  Chandos?"  she  felt  herself  saying. 

"  Yes,"  said  Dane,  grimly;  "  just  back,  like  the  Prodigal. 

"  Spare  me,  my  dear  Dane,"  she  heard  the  voice  say— the 
soft,  sleek  voice  she  remembered  so  well  and  hated  so  unspeak- 
ably; "spare  me!  Why  is  it  that  every  man  who  returns 
from  a  holiday  that  is  a  little  longer  than  usual  is  so  promptly 
dubbed  by  that  very  trite  and  hackneyed  title,  the  Prodigal  f 
But  Prodigal  or  not,  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Lady  Armi— 

Then  he  stopped;  and  she  felt  rather  than  saw  that  he  rec- 
ognized her. 


260  OKCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

He  went  white  to  the  lips,  a  greenish,  unwholesome  white, 
and  his  jaw  dropped  for  a  moment;  then  the  color  flooded  his 
face,  and  his  pale  eyes  grew  red  and  hot,  as  if  the  blood  had 
rushed  to  his  head,  and  he  stood  looking  at  her. 

"  Here,  come  on  and  I'll  find  you  a  partner,"  said  Dane. 

"  No,  thanks,"  said  Chandos.  "  It  would  be  cruel  to  ask 
me  in  such  a  crowd.  Perhaps  Lady  Dane  will  permit  me  to 
introduce  myself  more  fully.  We  are — er — " — he  smiled — 
"  relations,  and  should  know  each  other." 

"  All  right,"  said  Dane,  and  he  went  off. 

St.  Aubyn  handed  Lyra  her  fan. 

"  I  still  advise  you  to  go  outside,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

She  looked  at  him  as  if  she  did  not  hear  him,  or  did  not 
understand. 

He  moved  away,  but  not  out  of  sight.  He  had  seen  the 
change  that  had  come  over  her.  It  was  his  duty  to  watch  over 
her. 

Chandos  drew  near  and  seated  himself  beside  her.  Instinct- 
ively she  rose,  but,  with  a  long  breath  and  a  shudder,  sunk 
down  again. 

"  Lyra!"  He  bent  his  head  toward  her,  like  a  loathsome 
snake,  as  it  seemed  to  her.  "  Lyra!" 

She  did  not  turn  her  head. 

He  whispered  her  name  once  more: 

"  Lyra,  you  know  me?" 

Half  unconsciously  her  lips  opened,  and  she  formed  his 
name: 

"  Geoffrey  Barle!" 

He  smiled  and  passed  liis  hand  across  his  thin  lips — a  trick 
she  remembered  and  loathed. 

"  Yes,  I  am  Geoffrey  Barle,  your  husband,"  he  whispered 
behind  his  hand;  then  he  laughed. 

She  rose  and  looked  round  wildly.  St.  Aubyn  was  by  her 
side  in  a  moment,  as  it  seemed. 

"  Take — take  me — into — the  air!"  she  gasped. 

"  Permit  me,"  he  said  to  Chandos;  and,  drawing  Lyra's 
arm  within  his  so  far  that  he  literally  supported  her,  he  led 
her  away. 

Mr.  Chandos  looked  after  them,  and  then  up  at  the  ceiling, 
and  then  at  Dane,  whose  head  towered  above  a  group  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room,  and  softly,  reflectively  gnawed  liis  lips. 

"  Dane'e  wife!"  he  muttered.     "  Dane's  wife!" 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  261 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

GEOFFREY  BARLE — her  husband! 

Lyra  leaned  against  the  balcony  and  looked  at  the  sky,  in 
which  the  stars  were  beginning  to  pale  before  the  approaching 
dawn,  and  tried  to  realize,  to  cope  with  this  awful  fact,  this 
terrible  calamity. 

For  a  time  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  must  be  the  victim  of 
some  hideous  nightmare  or  hallucination.  It  could  not — could 
not  be  true,  that  Geoffrey  Barle  had  come  to  life  again.  Why, 
if  it  was  true,  then — thea  she,  Lyra,  was  not  Dane's  wife!  she 
who  loved  him  so,  loved  him  far  better  than  her  own  life, 
who  would  be  the  mother  of  his  child — not  his  wife!  She  put 
her  hands  to  the  sides  of  her  head  and  rocked  to  and  fro  in  her 
agony. 

St.  Aubyn  picked  up  the  shawl  of  Indian  silk  which  her 
gesture  had  displaced,  and  put  it  over  her  shoulders. 

"  You  are  tired  out,  Lady  Dane/'  he  said.  "  Shall  I  get 
you  a  glass  of  wine?  I  wish  to  Heaven  those  people  would 
go. "  And  he  glanced  angrily  toward  the  ball-room. 

"  No,  no/'  she  said;  then  she  changed  her  mind.  "  Yes, 
get  me  some  wine." 

He  went  and  brought  her  a  glass  of  champagne  and  almost 
held  it  to  her  lips,  for  her  hands  were  snaking  as  if  with 
ague;  and  as  he  ministered  to  her  with  all  a  man's  gentleness 
and  a  woman's  patience,  he  asked  himself  what  had  hap- 
pened to  her.  She  had  seemed  to  break  down  during  her  in- 
troduction to  Chandos.  Surely  the  man's  presence  had  not 
upset  her;  why  should  it  do  so? 

"  I  think  you  should  be  in  bed,  Lady  Dane/'  he  said. 
"  Why  not  go.  I  will  fetch  Dane— 

"  No,  no/'  she  said,  quickly.  "  Give  me  a  little  time  to 
think,  to  breathe— do  not  fetch  him  yet."  And  her  voice 
grew  almost  pleading. 

St.  Aubyn  was  puzzled  as  well  as  anxious.  Her  exhaustion 
appeared  to  be  as  much  mental  as  physical. 

"  You  have  been  doing  too  much,"  he  said.  You  were 
not  used  to  this  confounded  life,  this  endless  round  of  toil, 
which  some  of  us  call  pleasure — this  turning  of  night  into  day 
and  day  into  night.  You  are  too  good  to  be  sacrificed  to  such 
a  life." 

There  was  an  angry,  impatient  rmg  in  his  low  voice  which 

roused  her. 


262  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

"  Yes,  that  is  it;  it  is  the  late  hours/'  she  said.  "  And  I 
am  not  used  to  it.  It  was  all  new  to  me."  She  made  no  effort 
to  compose  herself,  to  rally  from  the  awful  shock  which  the 
sight  of  Geoffrey  Barle  had  inflicted,  and  partially  succeeded. 
"  Take  me  back  now,"  she  said.  "  How  good  and  patient 
you  are  always  with  me.  Lord  St.  Aubyn,"  she  added.  "  Oh, 
what  it  is  to  have  a  friend!"  And  she  turned  her  tearless, 
burning  eyes  upon  him  for  a  moment  with  sad  gratitude. 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  my  goodness  and  patience, 
Lady  Dane,"  he  said;  "  but  you  are  quite  right  when  you  say 
I  am  your  friend.  That  goes  without  saying;  and  as  a  friend, 
I  wish  you  were  out  of  this  and  in  the  quietude  of  your  own 
room.  I  can  see  that  you  are  ill." 

"  111!    Do  you  think  so?    Do  I  look  ill?"  she  asked. 

"  I  am  compelled  to  answer — yes,"  he  said,  gravely.  "  You 
want  rest,  immediate  rest,  and  you  must  have  it.  I  am  glad 
to  say  that  the  people  are  clearing  out. " 

They  were  going  rapidly.  He  stood  beside  her,  ready  to 
catch  her  if  she  should  fall,  and  indeed  it  seemed  to  him  not 
unlikely  that  she  would,  as  she  speeded  the  parting  guests; 
and  presently,  very  quickly,  though  it  appeared  to  be  hours  to 
him,  the  great  crowd  had  melted  away.  Dane  came  bounding 
up  the  stairs — he  had  been  saying  good-night  in  the  hall — came 
up  with  a  smile  on  his  lips  to  congratulate  his  darling  on  the 
great  success  of  the  evening,  but  at  sight  of  her  white,  haggard 
face  stopped  short,  aghast. 

"  Lyra!" 

She  tried  to  smile. 

"  I  am  all  right,  Dane,"  she  said.  "  I  am  only  tired,  that 
is  all,  is  it  not,  Lord  St.  Aubyn?"  and  she  turned  to  him  with 
a  feverish  eagerness. 

Lord  Aubyn  nodded,  his  grave  eyes  resting  anxiously  on  the 
lovely  but  drawn  and  weary  face. 

"  I  am  afraid  Lady  Dane  is  knocked  up,"  he  said.  "  Will 
you  let  me  send  in  the  doctor,  Dane?" 

"  No,  no!"  exclaimed  Lyra;  but  Dane  answered  in  the 
affirmative  with  a  glance;  and  St.  Aubyn  passed  down  the 
stairs. 

Dane  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"  My  dear  girl,  what  is  it?"  he  murmured,  with  loving  so- 
licitude. "  You  are  worn  out.  What  a  blind,  selfish  idiot  I 
am  not  to  have  thought  of  it,  not  to  have  taken  better  care  of 
you." 

She  resigned  herself  to  his  embrace,  and  lay  in  his  arms  for 
a  moment  or  two,  like  a  weary  child;  her  head  resting  against 


OKCE    IK    A    LIFE.  263 

his  heart,  her  white  arms  round  his  neck;  then  suddenly  the 
thought  smote  her,  "  Geoffrey  Barle,  my  husband,  is  alive," 
and  with  a  convulsive  shudder  she  tore  herself  from  his  arms 
and  shrunk  away  from  him. 

Greatly  alarmed,  he  tried  to  take  her  to  him  again,  but  she 
shrunk  still  further  back. 

"  No— no!"  she  panted.  "  Don't— don't  touch  me— don't 
come  near  me!" 

He  went  white. 

"  Lyra!" 

"  My  dear,  what  is  the  matter?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Leslie, 
coming  up  to  them. 

Lyra  turned  to  her  and  grasped  her  arm. 

"  Take  me  away — at  once!"  she  panted,  huskily.  "  I — I 
am  ill.  It — it  may  be  some  fever.  Don't — don't  let  him  come 
near  me!" 

Mrs.  Leslie  put  her  arm  round  her,  and  signed  to  Dane  not 
to  approach. 

"  Come  with  me,  my  dear.     Yes,  you  look  ill." 

Lyra  paused  after  a  few  steps  and  looked  back  at  Dane, 
standing  like  stone  where  she  had  thrust  him. 

"  Don't — don't  mind  me,  Dane,"  she  said,  with  a  piteous 
attempt  at  a  smile.  "  I — I  am  not  well.  I  scarcely  know 
what  I  am  saying." 

"  My  darling!"  and  he  took  a  half  step  toward  her. 

"  No,  no!"  she  breathed,  with  a  shudder;  "  you  must  not 
come  near  me.  But,  Dane  " — she  put  her  hand  to  her  throat 
— "  Dane,  you— you  know  I— I  love  you." 

"  Lyra!"" 

She  panted  as  if  for  breath. 

"  And — and  you  love  me,  Dane?  You  will — will  not  hate 
me,  whatever — whatever  happens?" 

He  would  have  taken  her  in  his  arms  again,  but  Mrs.  Leslie 
shook  her  head  warningly. 

"Do  not  excite  her,"  she  said,  gravely.  "Let  her  go 
alone  with  me.  And  get  the  doctor,"  she  added,  in  a  whisper. 

Dane  met  St.  Aubyn  and  the  famous  physician,  Sir  Andrew 
Starke,  a  few  yards  from  the  house,  and  Dane  and  St.  Aubyn 
paced  the  empty  ball-room,  waiting  for  his  report. 

"  I  can  not  understand  it,"  poor  Dane  said  over  and  over 
again.  "  She  was  all  right  when  I  left  her,  about  an  hour  be- 
fore the  ball  broke  up.  I  thought  she  looked  rather  pale  and 
tired  when  I  introduced  Chandos  to  her,  but— but  I  did  not 
think  she  was  so  dreadfully  ill,  Why— why,  she  talked  quite 


£64  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

wildly,  you  know;"  and  he  looked  piteously  at  St.  Aubyn,  wha 
walked  "beside  him  grave  and  silent. 

Sir  Andrew  came  back  to  them  at  last. 

"  There  is  no  cause  for  alarm,  Lord  Armitage,"  he  said, 
answering  Dane's  look.  "  Her  ladyship  is  overtired.  Nerv- 
ous exhaustion  has  produced  some  fever.  She  will  need  rest, 
complete  rest  and  quiet."  He  looked  down  at  the  polished 
floor  which  had  so  recently  been  pressed  by  hundreds  of  danc- 
ing feet,  and  thought  for  a  moment.  "  There  has  been  no 
mental  shock,  no  unusual  excitement  of  late,  I  suppose?" 

Dane  stared  at  him  with  surprise. 

"  Shock?"  he  repeated.  "  No,  certainly  not.  What  could 
there  be?" 

"  Just  so,"  assented  the  courtly  physician.  "  I  asked  be- 
cause Lady  Armitage's  condition  answered  to  that  produced 
by  some  sudden  mental  disturbance.  There  has  been  none, 
you  say?" 

Dane  shook  his  head  emphatically. 

"  No,  none  whatever.  You  have  been  near  Lyra  all  the 
evening,  St.  Aubyn.  You  know  of  nothing  to  upset  her,  do 
you?" 

St.  Aubyn  shook  his  head. 

"  Nothing,"  he  said,  gravely.  "  Lady  Dane  appeared  quite 
well — a  little  tired,  perhaps — until  just  before  the  close  of  the 
ball." 

"  Just  so,"  said  Sir  Andrew.  "  It  is  possible  she  may  have 
taken  a  chill,  but  I  think  that  the  feverish  condition  is  attrib- 
utable to  nervous  prostration.  She  must  be  kept  quiet.  I 
should  leave  her  to  her  maid,  and,  yes,  one  other  person — 
Mrs.  Leslie,  say — for  the  next  few  days." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  I  am  not  to  see  her?"  demanded  Dane, 
aghast. 

Sir  Andrew  inclined  his  head. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  must  lay  an  embargo  on  you  of  all  others," 
he  said.  "  There  must  be  no  risk  of  excitement,  and  your 
presence  would  be  dangerous.  She,  herself,  seems  anxious 
that  you  should  not  see  her.  It  is,  of  course,  a  symptom  of 
her  peculiar  condition.  The  ne-rves — the  nerves,  my  dear 
Lord  Armitage,  are  our  great  trouble  nowadays.  As  soon  as 
she  is  well  enough  to  be  moved,  we  must  take  her  into  the 
country.  I  think  I  will  come  in  again  in  the  morning — that 
is,  a  little  later  on — for  it  is  morning  now.  Pray,  do  not  be 
alarmed,"  he  added,  in  his  well-known,  kindly  fashion. 
*'  There  is  no  cause  for  apprehension.  Rest,  quiet,  and 


OtfCE    IN    A    LIFE.  265 

change,  and  above  all,  the  absence  of  all  excitement,  will  re- 
store her  ladyship." 

Dane  sunk  on  to  a  settee  and  looked  up  at  St.  Aubyn. 

"  Is  he  speaking  the  truth  or — or  only  deceiving  me?"  he 
said,  fearfully.  "  I  love  her  so  that— that— that— " 

St.  Aubyn  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Don't  give  way,"  he  said,  in  his  grave  voice.  "  That's 
not  like  you,  Dane." 

Dane  sighed,  and  tried  to  smile. 

;<  Why,  man,  you  are  as  white  as  a  ghost  yourself,"  he  said. 

St.  Aubyn  colored  and  winced. 

"  She  must  go  away,-''  Dane  went  on,  "as  soon  as  she  can 
be  moved,"  he  said.  "  I  will  take  her  to  Highfield  directly 
the  very  first  moment  it  is  possible.  I  say,  old  fellow,  I  wish 
you'd  go  down  and  see  that  it  is  all  ready,  will  you?  I  can't 
leave  her,  though  I  mustn't  see  her." 

"  Certainly,"  responded  St.  Aubyn,  and  as  a  matter  of 
course. 

Chandos  had  sat  where  Lyra  had  left  him  for  a  quarter  of 
an  hour;  then  he  had  left  the  house  and  gone  home. 

The  first  tiling  he  did  on  reaching  his  chambers  was  to  mix 
himself  a  stiff  glass  of  brandy  and  water,  and  it  was  not  until 
he  had  consumed  this,  and  "  one  to  follow,"  that  he  could 
pull  himself  together  and  realize  the  situation. 

It  was  so  astounding,  so  melodramatic  a  one,  that  it  had 
overwhelmed  and  confused  him.  It  seemed  incredible,  during 
the  months  he  had  been  skulking  about  the  least-frequented 
parts  of  the  Continent,  sometimes  in  Spain,  sometimes  in  Mex- 
ico, then,  as  he  grew  bolder,  hi  Switzerland  and  France,  he 
had  scarcely  thought  of  Lyra.  The  whole  incident  had  ended 
so  disastrously  for  him,  that,  as  is  the  fashion  with  weak- 
minded  men,  he  had  tried  to  forget  it.  He  had  had  anything 
but  a  pleasant  time  of  it;  had  missed  those  little  luxuries 
which  are  necessities  to  men  of  his  temperament;  had  missed 
his  club,  his  saunter  down  Pall  Mall,  his  little  circle  of  ad- 
miring acquaintances;  in  short,  had  been  as  uncomfortable  as 
a  fish  out  of  water,  lie  longed  and  pined  for  home,  as  many 
an  exile  before  him  had  done,  and  the  day  he  chanced  upon 
an  old  London  paper  and  read  in  the  "  provincial  "  column  of 
the  finding  of  the  dead  body  in  the  Taw  and  its  supposed  iden- 
tification, he  started  for  London.  On  his  way  thither  he  read, 
in  Galignani,  of  the  great  social  success  of  the  Viscountess 
Armitage,  and  so  was  informed  of  Dane's  marriage. 
With  a  curse,  he  flung  the  paper  from  him. 
"  No  chance  of  my  coming  into  the  title  now,"  he  muttered; 


266  ONCE    Iff    A    LIFE. 

"  there's  sure  to  be  a  whole  pack  of  children!"  and  he  arrived 
in  London  in  anything  but  a  pleasant  frame  of  mind,  glad  as 
he  was  to  find  himself  there. 

The  first  thing  he  heard  of  was  Lady  Armitage's  great  ball, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  would  be  a  good  opportunity  for 
his  re-entry  into  London  society.  Besides,  he  was  rather  curi- 
ous to  see  Dane's  wife,  though  it  didn't  matter  to  him  in  the 
slightest  whom  Dane  had  married.  Whoever  she  was,  she 
would,  no  doubt,  effectually  cut  him — Chandos — out  of  all 
chance  of  the  Starminster  peerage. 

And  Dane  had  married  Lyra  Chester!  Over  his  brandy  an^ 
water  he  managed  at  last  to  realize  the  fact.  Then  he  began 
to  ask  himself  a  series  of  questions,  and  first  of  all  came  this 
one:  Did  she  believe  him — Chandos — to  be  dead?  Yes;  there 
could  be  no  doubt  of  that.  Her  face,  the  look  of  horror  and 
amazed  incredulity  in  her  lovely  eyes  as  they  rested  on  him, 
evidenced  that.  She  had  looked  as  if  she  had  seen  a  ghost. 

Mr.  Chandos  chuckled. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  muttered,  "  she  thought  she  had  got  rid  of 
me,  that's  certain!  And  now,  has  she  told  Dane?  No,"  he 
muttered.  "  Dane  would  not  have  received  me  even  as  amia- 
bly as  he  did.  He  would  have  chucked  me  out,  instead  of 
introducing  me  to  his  wife.  She  hasn't  told  him,  and  she  be- 
lieves in  that — that  marriage.  She  thinks  I  am  her  husband. 
And  now  the  question  is,  what  will  she  do?  Will  she  tell 
Dane?" 

He  pondered  over  this  for  hours,  while  the  gray  dawn 
changed  to  rosy  sunrise,  and  shone  through  the  chink  of  his 
blind  upon  his  flushed  face,  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
whether  she  confessed  to  Dane  or  not  depended  very  much 
upon  him,  Chandos. 

"  I  must  be  careful,"  he  muttered — "  very  careful.  I  don't 
quite  see  my  way  yet;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  I  have  a  decent 
hand,  and  that  if  I  can  play  it  properly  I  may  win  the  game. 
Here's  Dane's  wife  under  the  impression  thai.  I  am  her  hus- 
band turned  up  again,  and  afraid  to  say  a  wo*d.  If  I  could 
only  bring  about  a  separation,  there's  only  Dane  between  me 
and  the  title.  By  Jove!  if  I  could  only  see  my  way!"  He 
mixed  himself  another  glass  and  lighted  a  fresh  cigarette. 
Sneaking  about  the  by-ways  of  the  Continent  had  not  im- 
proved Mr.  Chandos's  habits,  and  he  drank  and  smoked  a 
great  deal  more  than  he  had  been  wont  to  do.  "  If  I  could 
only  see  my  way!  At  any  rate,  the  first  tiling  I  must  do  is  to 
persuade  her  to  keep  her  own  counsel.  I  wonder,  now, 
whether  I  could  frighten  her  into  leaving  Dane?" 


OKCE    IK    A    LIFE.  26? 

He  turned  this  suggestion  over  in  his  mind,  and  tried  to 
beat  it  into  definite  shape. 

"  If  I  could  manage  it,  it  wouldn't  be  a  bad  move.  Dane 
isn't  the  man  to  marry  again;  he's  very  fond  of  her;  I  saw 
that  this  evening.  Ah!"  he  drew  a  long  breath,  "  there's  a 
chance  for  me  if  I  could  only  see  what  cards  to  play.  "Well, 
I'll  wait  and  watch. >5  And  with  a  chuckle  he  staggered  to 
bed. 

The  next  week  was  an  anxious,  an  indescribably  anxious  one 
for  all  who  loved  Lyra.  During  the  seven  days  she  lay  appar- 
ently in  utter  prostration,  and  almost  unconscious  of  every- 
thing around  her.  Sir  Andrew,  who  was  in  constant  attend- 
ance, was  very  grave,  but  by  no  means  despairing;  and  Mrs. 
Leslie  and  Theodosia,  who  scarcely  left  her,  assured  Dane, 
almost  beside  himself  with  fear,  that  there  was  no  danger,  and 
that  she  would  live.  And  on  the  eighth  day  there  came  a 
change  for  the  better. 

But  though  she  was  now  fully  conscious,  and  his  name  was 
the  first  to  leave  her  lips,  Lyra  expressed  no  desire  to  see 
Dane ;  and  when  he  was  permitted  to  enter  the  room,  his 
presence  seemed  to  disturb  and  excite  her  so  much  that  Sir 
Andrew  ordered  him  out  again. 

"  I — I  can't  understand  it,"  poor  Dane  remarked  to  St. 
Aubyn,  who  was,  as  he  had  hitherto  been,  his  constant  com- 
panion. "  That  my  darling  should  be  upset  by  the  sight  of 
me!  Why,  she — it  seemed  to  me  that  she  absolutely  shrunk 
from  me!" 

"  When  people  are  in  her  state,  their  minds  run  by  the  rule 
of  contrary,"  said  St.  Aubyn.  "  She  will  be  all  right  when 
she  gets  away  from  London  and  down  at  Highfield." 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Dane,  gloomily,  "  or  I  shall  go  out  of 
my  mind." 

Lyra's  recovery  was  more  rapid  than  they  had  ventured  to 
hope,  and  after  a  fortnight  Sir  Andrew  pronounced  her  well 
enough  to  take  the  journey;  but  he  enjoined  perfect  quiet, 
and  warned  them  against  permitting  the  patient  to  become  ex- 
cited. 

Dane— or,  rather,  St.  Aubyn— for  Dane  was  scarcely  capa- 
ble'of  anything  but  pacing  up  and  down  next  his  darling  s 
room  and  waiting  for  news  of  her— made  the  most  careful 
arrangements  for  the  journey,  and,  at  Dane's  earnest  solicita- 
tion, accompanied  them. 

"  You'd  better  come,"  Dane  said.  "  She  has  been  so  used 
to  you  that  she  might  miss  you,  and  "—he paused  and  gnawed 
at  his  mustache—"  and,  somehow,  though  she  seems  to  avow 


268  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

seeing  me  or  having  anything  to  do  with  me,  she  doesn't  mind 
you.     She  has  asked  after  you  several  times." 

"  It  is  symptomatic  of  hysteria  to  shun  those  we  really  care 
most  about,"  said  St.  Aubyn.  "  I  will  go  down  with  you,  in 
case  I  should  be  of  any  use.  Anyhow,  I  shall  be  company  for 
you." 

'  Yes;  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do  without  you,"  said 
Dane. 

They  reached  Highfield,  the  two  men  traveling  in  a  smok- 
ing-compartment.  At  almost  every  station  Dane  had  gone  to 
the  Pullman  car  in  which  the  ladies  were  and  asked  after 
Lyra,  and  once  or  twice  she  stretched  out  her  hand  to  him 
and  smiled  at  him — a  strange  smile,  full  of  wistful  tenderness 
— but  she  did  not  speak. 

Highfield  was  an  extremely  beautiful  place,  and  Dane  had 
looiced  forward  to  showing  it  to  her,  and  promised  himself 
much  enjoyment  in  her  delight  and  admiration,  but  she  viewed 
it  with  sad,  melancholy  indifference. 

The  whole  place  had  been  redecorated  and  refurnished,  and 
the  earl  had  indeed  made  a  palace  of  it;  but  instead  of  the 
hearty  and  noisy  welcome  with  which  the  tenants  and  servants 
had  intended  receiving  their  master  -and  mistress,  a  subdued 
air  of  unnatural  quietude  brooded  over  the  house. 

The  weather  was  lovely,  the  gardens  all  aglow  with  flowers, 
and  for  days  Dane  and  St.  Aubyn  wandered  about  anxious  and 
distrait,  for  though  Lyra  was  "  getting  better,"  she  was  still 
confined  to  her  room,  and  saw  no  one  but  Mrs.  Leslie.  Lady 
Theodosia,  at  Lyra's  insistence,  had  gone  back  to  Marti7i  and 
"  her  parish  "  again.  But  one  morning  Mrs.  Leslie  came  to 
Dane  with  better  news. 

"  I  think  she  might  go  out  to-day,"  she  said. 

Dane  brightened  up  at  once. 

"  I'll  get  the  carriage,"  he  said.  "  No;  I'll  drive  her  in 
the  pony-carriage.  It  runs  very  easily,  and  we  can  go  softly. 
It  will  seem  like  old  times,"  he  added,  with  a  little  shake  in 
his  voice  that  touched  Mrs.  Leslie. 

"  You  will  be  patient  with  her,  Lord  Dane?"  she  said. 

"  Patient?"  He  stared  at  her.  "  Why,  of  course  I  will. 
How  do  you  mean?" 

Mrs.  Leslie  hesitated. 

"  She  is  still  very  unlike  her  old  self,"  she  said.  "  She  is 
not  quite  well  yet,  and — and  has  all  sorts  of  fancies.  Don't 
take  any  notice  if — if  she  should  not  want  to  talk  to  you. " 

Dane  nodded,  and  turned  his  head  away. 

"I  understand,"  he  said.     "  Perhaps  I'd  better  not  go?" 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  265 

"  Yes,  yes/''  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  quickly.  "  I  want  you  to  go; 
I  want  to  try  the  experiment,  to  see  if  the  hysteria  has  left 
her,  or,  at  any  rate,  is  leaving  her." 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

HE  had  the  pony-phaeton  brought  round,  and  presently 
Lyra  came  down  leaning  on  Mrs.  Leslie's  arm.  A  spasm  of 
pain  and  apprehension  shot  through  Dane's  heart  as  he  saw 
her.  Was  this  his  bright,  light-hearted  Lyra,  whose  very  pres- 
ence seemed  to  breathe  joy  and  happiness;  this  pale,  thin 
woman,  who  looked  like  a  broken  lily? 

A  fault  color  came  into  her  lovely  face;  she  saw  him,  and 
her  eyes  met  his  with  a  look  of  love,  of  deep  tenderness;  but 
it  was  only  momentary,  and  her  eyes  dropped,  and  her  face 
was  averted  almost  instantly. 

He  did  not  offer  to  touch  or  kiss  her — though  he  had  not 
seen  her  for  days — but  put  on  a  brusque  air  to  hide  his  emo- 
tion. 

"  Here  you  are,  then,"  he  said. 

He  helped  her  into  the  carriage,  and  carefully  arranged  her 
cushions  and  wraps,  and  drove  off  slowly  in  a  matter-of-fact 
fashion;  but  Lyra  saw  through  his  affectation  of  brusqueness, 
saw  the  hand  that  held  the  reins  tremble. 

"  Now  we'll  go  very  quietly,"  he  said;  "  and  you  needn't 
talk.  I'll  do  that— that  is,  if  you  want  me  to." 

"  Yes,  talk  to  me,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  sad  voice. 

"  All  right,"  he  said,  with  a  touch  of  his  old  brightness. 
And  as  they  drove  along  he  pointed  out  the  various  note- 
worthy objects,  explained  the  "  lay  "  of  the  country,  and  di- 
lated upon  the  happy  summer  he  intended  they  should  have. 
"  I  had  a  letter  from  the  guv'nor  this  morning,"  he  said. 
"  Poor  old  guv'nor,  he  has  been  as  cut  up  as  any  of  us  by  your 
illness.  But  we  ain't  to  talk  of  by-gones,  are  we?  you  are  not 
ill  any  longer?" 

"  No,"   she  murmured,  almost  to  herself, 
getting  better  and  stronger  everyday."  And  it  almost  seemed 
as  if  her  tone  indicated  regret. 

It  smote  him  to  the  heart,  but  he  wisely  took  no  notice. 

"  He  talks  of  coming  down  to  stay  with  us  when  you  are 
quite  strong  again,"  he  said. 

He  felt  her  start. 

"  No,  no,"  she  said. 

He  touched  her  shawl  soothingly. 

"  AH  right,  dear;  he  shall  not  come  if  you  do  not  want  him 


270  ONCE    IK    A    LIFE. 

We  will  just  '  keep  to  ourselves,'  as  the  children  say.  Shall 
I  send  St.  Aubyn  away?  He  is  here,  you  know.  He  has  gone 
up  to  town  to-day." 

"  No,  no,"  she  said.  "  I  should  like  him  to  stay."  She 
sighed,  and  her  lips  quivered.  "  Who  am  I  that  I  should  rob 
you  of  your  friend?  You  will  want  him — soon." 

Dane  glided  from  the  topic  of  visitors  to  less  exciting  ones, 
and  she  lay  back  and  listened  to  him,  but  with  an  absent, 
brooding  look  in  her  beautiful  eyes  which  tortured  him.  She, 
herself,  was  undergoing  torture  beyond  all  power  of  words  to 
describe.  For  was  she  not  riding  by  his  side,  permitting  him 
to  lavish  his  love  and  tenderness  upon  her,  she  who  was  de- 
ceiving him?  Not  once,  but  a  score  of  times,  she  tried  to  sum- 
mon up  courage  to  tell  him  all,  but  the  knowledge  of  his 
great,  absorbing  love  for  her,  and  the  mental  weakness  inher- 
ent to  her  illness,  rendered  her  incapable.  She  was  too  weak 
to  do  anything  but  drift — drift  toward  the  edge  of  the  cata- 
ract over  which  she  must  sooner  or  later  plunge  to  ruin  and 
destruction. 

"  If  I  could  have  died!"  was  her  one  thought,  for  in  death 
seemed  her  only  chance  of  escape.  They  left  the  park  which 
surrounded  Highfield,  and  approached  the  village.  It  was  a 
picturesque  little  place,  with  a  church,  a  cluster  of  cottages, 
and  the  usual  inn,  and  Lyra  was  eying  it  with  listless  interest, 
when  suddenly  the  faint  color  that  had  crept  into  her  face  fled 
from  it,  and  her  eyes  dilated.  A  man  had  sauntered  out  of 
the  inn.  It  was  Chandos  Armitage.  Dane  had  seen  him  too, 
and  was  too  engrossed  in  his  own  annoyance  to  notice  Lyra's 
agitation. 

"  Here's  Chandos,  of  all  people  in  the  world!"  he  said, 
under  his  breath,  "  I  wonder  what  the  deuce  he  is  doing 
down  here?" 

Mr.  Chandos  took  his  hands  from  the  pockets  of  his  velvet 
lounge  coat  and  came  up  to  the  carriage,  raising  his  hat  and 
smiling  sympathetically. 

"  Halloo,  Chandos!"  said  Dane,  with  a  mixture  of  coldness 
and  irritation.  "  What  are  you  doing  down  here?" 

"  How  do  you  do,  Lady  Dane?"  he  said,  ignoring  Dane  for 
the  moment,  and  fixing  his  light  eyes  on  Lyra's  face.  "  I  am 
so  grieved  to  hear  of  your  illness,  but  trust  that  you  are  on  the 
road  to  recovery." 

Lyra  opened  her  lips,  but  no  words  would  come,  and  she 
lay  back  and  eyed  him  in  silent  horror,  in  the  stupor  with 
which  the  doomed  bird  eyes  the  snake. 

"  What  am  I  doing  here?"  he  went  on,  smiling  at  Dane, 


ONCE    IK    A    LIFE.  271 

but  avoiding  his  rather  stern  gaze.  "  My  reply  must  be  the 
usual  one.  I  am  wandering  about  in  search  of  impressions.  I 
am  writing  a  book — 

"  Oh!  ah,  yes;  I  know/'  said  Dane,  cutting  in  rather  ab- 
ruptly. "  Did  you  know  we  were  down  here? 

"No,"  lied  Mr.  Chandos,  blandly.  "  I  thought  you  had 
gone  to  Starminster.  It  is  an  unexpected  pleasure." 

"  And  you  are  staying  at  the  inn?"  said  Dane.  "  I'm 
sorry  we  can't  ask  you  to  the  house,  but  Lady  Dane  is  still  too 
unwell  to  receive  visitors." 

He  stooped  to  pick  up  a  wrap  as  he  spoke,  and  Lyra  felt 
Chandos's  eyes  fixed  upon  her  with  a  significant  frown  which 
she  fully  understood.  It  conveyed  a  threat.  Moistening  her 
lips,  she  said,  in  a  hollow  voice : 

"  I — I  am  all  right  now,  Dane.  Ask — ask  Mr." — she  had 
almost  said  Barle — "  Chandos  to  dine  with  us." 

A  faint  smile  of  triumph  curved  Chandos's  thin  lips.  In 
those  few  words  she  had  acknowledged  herself  his  slave. 

"  I  should  very  much  like  to  come,"  he  said,  softly,  defer- 
entially— "  that  is,  when  Lady  Dane  is  really  strong  enough 
to  have  me." 

"  I  am  quite  strong,"  she  faltered. 

"  Well,  let  it  stand  over  for  the  present,"  said  Dane.  "  You 
won't  think  us  inhospitable,  Chandos?  I'll  send  you  a  line 
when  Lady  Dane  is  really  well  enough — that  is,  if  you  are  still 
staying  here.  But  I  suppose  you'll  be  off  soon;  you  don't  stay 
long  in  one  place,  do  you?" 

<?Not  long,  usually,"  said  Chandos,  blandly;  "  but  "—ho 
looked  at  Lyra,  who  seemed  incapable  of  withdrawing  her  eyes 
from  his — "  this  place  has  special  attractions  for  me." 

"  I  see,"  said  Dane,  gathering  the  reins  together. 

"  All  right;  I'll  write  to  you.  Send  me  a  copy  of  your  book 
when  it  comes  out;"  and  he  drove  on. 

"  Confound  the  fellow!"  he  said,  as  he  glanced  at  Lyra, 
and  noticed  her  increased  pallor.  "  Why  couldn't  he  have 
kept  out  of  the  way?  The  meeting  has  upset  you,  dearest, 
hasn't  it?" 

"  No,"  she  said,  avoiding  the  tender  consideration  of  his 
eyes.  "  No.  Why — why  were  you  so  cold  to  him?" 

She  could  scarcely  frame  the  question. 

"Oh,  I  don't  like  him!"  he  said.  "I  think  I  told  you 
something  about  his  character,  didn't  I?  I  can't  go  into  par- 
ticulars; but  Chandcs  is— well,  is  not  a  very  desirable  ac- 
quaintance, though  I  suppose  v^  must  show  him  decent  civil- 
ity. But  there  isr>'f  arv  ~*QCd  ^  ask  nim  to  Highfield. 


272  ONCE    IIT    A    LIFE. 

She  breathed  hard.  The  threat  conveyed  by  Chandos's 
frown  drove  her  on  desperately. 

"  I — I  should  like  him  to  come,"  she  said. 

He  stared  at  her. 

"  Oh,  you  only  say  that  because  he  is  a  relation — a  cousin," 
he  said. 

Her  hands  writhed  together  under  the  sable  rug. 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  Why  should  he  not  come?  I  am  quite 
well  now,  and  I  should  not  like  him,  or  any  one,  to  tliink  that 
we  were  inhospitable.  Ask  him  to  come  to-morrow  night, 
Dane." 

He  gnawed  at  his  mustache. 

"Ask  him!"  she  repeated,  with  a  kind  of  feverish  impa- 
tience which  at  once  frightened  him  into  acquiescence. 

"  Very  well,  dearest,"  he  said,  soothingly;  "  I  will  drop 
him  a  line.  After  all,  you  need  not  come  down  or  see  him,  if 
you  do  not  feel  up  to  it.  St.  Aubyn  will  be  down  to-morrow, 
and  he  and  I  can  entertain  him.  Confound  him!"  he  added, 
under  his  breath. 

Lyra  sunk  back  and  closed  her  eyes.  When  and  how  would 
it  end,  this  horror  which  hung  over  them  both  like  a  thick, 
suffocating  cloud? 

As  he  helped  her  out  of  the  phaeton  and  up  the  stairs  to  her 
room,  she  put  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  You  will  write  to — your  cousin?"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  said.  Then  he  put  his  arm  round  her  and 
looked  wistfully  into  her  eyes.  "  Give  me  a  kiss,  Lyra.  It 
— it  is  a  long  time  since  you  kissed  me,  dearest." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears  and  she  held  her  face  to  him;  then 
withdrawing  herself  from  his  arms,  went  into  her  room. 

The  crisis  was  at  hand;  she  felt  it  in  every  nerve;  but  in- 
stead of  crushing  her  to  the  earth,  as  it  would  have  done  a 
fortnight  ago,  the  conviction  seemed  to  sting  her  into  a  kind 
of  fictitious  strength.  The  gentle  stag,  when  brought  to  bay, 
will  turn  upon  its  pursuers;  weak  woman,  in  her  dire  ex- 
tremity, will  often  display  more  than  a  giant's  courage.  She 
would  gather  up  all  her  strength,  would  face  this  awful 
trouble,  would  end  it  one  way  or  the  other. 

To  Mrs.  Leslie's  great  surprise  and  delight,  Lyra  seemed 
much  stronger  and  more  like  herself  that  evening. 

"  It  is  the  drive,  my  dear,"  she  said,  joyfully.  "  Please 
God,  we  shall  have  you  quite  well  and  strong  again  in  a  day  or 
two." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Lyra,  absently. 

Beluctantiy  enough,  Dane  scut  the  invitation  to  Chandos. 


OKCE    IN    A    LIFE.  273 

"That  cousin  of  mine,  Chandos  Armitage,  is  staying  at  the 
inn  here,  and  nothing  would  satisfy  Lyra  but  that  I  must  ask 
him  to  dmner  to-night,"  he  said  to  St.  Aubyn  when  he  came 
down  to  Highfield  that  same  evening.  "  We  met  him  loung- 
ing outside  the  inn,  and  Lyra  fancied  that  we  ought  to  be 
hospitable. " 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  him,"  said  St.  Aubyn.  "  But 
will  Lady  Dane  be  well  enough  to  receive  him?" 

"  I  don't  know;  but  it  doesn't  matter;  you  will  help  me 
through  with  him.  I  can't  say  much  in  his  favor.  Hang 
the  fellow!  he's  no  credit  to  us.  A  shady  customer  with  a 
plausible  manner  that  gets  over  people.  I  suppose  he  made 
an  agreeable  impression  upon  Lyra." 

"  Lady  Dane  is  too  clever  to  be  taken  in  by  any  one,  how- 
ever plausible  he  may  be,"  said  St.  Aubyn,  quietly. 

'  You'd  think  so,"  said  Dane,  "  and  yet  she  insisted — in- 
sisted is  the  word — upon  my  asking  him. ' ' 

"  Lady  Dane  is  kindness  itself,"  said  St.  Aubyn,  laconically. 
"  But  she  need  not  come  down.  She  is  better,  you  say?" 
and  he  proceeded  to  ask  Dane  particulars  of  the  drive,  just  as 
a  brother  might  have  done. 

Chandos  was  walking  on  bayonets,  and  he  knew  it.  One 
false  step  and  he  would  be  ruined.  But  he  sent  an  acceptation, 
and  at  half  past  seven  appeared  at  Highfield,  apparently  as 
cool  as  a  cucumber,  esthetically  at  his  ease  as  a  man  could  be. 
Dane  received  him  rather  coldly,  and  St.  Aubyn,  after  a 
"  How  do  you  do?"  simply  ignored  him.  He  read  the  man's 
character  at  a  glance. 

"  I'm  afraid  Lady  Dane  won't  be  able  to  put  in  an  appear- 
ance," Dane  was  saying,  as  they  lounged  about  the  drawing- 
room  in  the  "  terrible  fifteen  minutes  before  dinner;  but  as 
he  spoke  Lyra  and  Mrs.  Leslie  entered  the  room. 

Lyra  wore  a  dress  of  some  soft  black  material  covered  with 
lace,  against  which  her  pale  face  and  large,  sad  eyes  contrasted, 
with  an  effect  which  struck  a  chord  that  Mr.  Chandos  fully 
appreciated. 

She  did  not  shake  hands  with  him — dinner  was  announced 
as  she  entered  the  room — and  only  bowed  coldly,  and  St 
Aubyn  took  her  in. 

The  dinner  passed  pleasantly  enough.  Mrs.  Leslie  and 
Chandos  got  into  an  argument  anent  modern  fiction  and  poe- 
try, and  kept  it  up  during  the  whole  of  the  meal,  Dane  and 
St.  Aubyn  listening,  and  Lyra  sitting  silent  and  preoccupied. 
After  "the  ladies  had  left  the  drawing-room  Dane  tried  to 
make  himself  agreeable,  though  he  disliked  and  distrusted  his 


274  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

cousin;  but  St.  Aubyn  sat  and  smoked  in  a  grim  silence  that 
would  have  been  creditable  to  a  North  American  Indian. 

Mr.  Chandos  watched  them  both  under  his  half-closed  eyes, 
and  carefully  avoided  the  pitfall  which  the  old  port  and  rare 
claret  presented;  and  when  Dane  proposed  that  they  should 
join  the  ladies,  Mr.  Chandos  was — for  a  wonder — clear-headed 

Mrs.  Leslie  was  at  the  piano  when  they  entered  the  drawing- 
room,  and  Lyra  was  half  recumbent  on  a  couch  near  the  win- 
dow. 

St.  Aubyn  went  up  to  her,  and  hi  the  most  natural  manner 
rearranged  the  cushions. 

"  Lord  Aubyn  is  quite  the  tame  cat  of  your  household," 
Chandos  said,  with  a  sleek  smile. 

Dane  turned  upon  him  with  mingled  dislike  and  surprise. 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked,  coldly. 

Chandos  smiled  enigmatically. 

"  He  and  Lady  Dane  are  great  friends,  evidently,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  they  are,"  said  Dane,  simply.  "  St.  Aubyn  is  the 
best  friend  I  have  got." 

"  Just  so,"  said  Chandos,  and  he  sauntered  to  the  piano. 
A  very  little  persuasion  from  Mrs.  Leslie  induced  him  to  play 
and  sing,  and  his  thin  but  "  artful  "  voice  floated  through  the 
room  not  disagreeably. 

Lyra  lay  back  and  listened  with  half -closed  eyes.  She  was 
back  at  the  cottage,  on  the  river  once  more,  and  the  voice 
filled  her  with  loathing.  It  became  unendurable  after  a  time, 
and  she  rose  and  moved  toward  the  open  window.  St.  Aubyn 
took  up  the  Indian  shawl  and  put  it  round  her. 

"  Beware  of  a  chill,  Lady  Dane,"  he  said;  "  an  invalid  can 
not  be  too  careful." 

"  Oh,  but  I  am  not  an  invalid  now,"  she  said,  listlessly; 
and  she  went  through  the  open  window  on  to  the  terrace.  A 
moment  or  two  afterward  a  shadow  fell  across  the  marble 
pavement,  and  Chandos  Armitage,  "  Geoffrey  Barle,"  stood 
beside  her. 

"  Lyra!"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

She  turned,  clutching  the  stone  coping,  and  faced  him. 
Her  heart  was  beating  thickly,  but  there  was  no  fear  in  her 
eyes,  only  a  dull  despair,  a  determination  to  know  the  worst 
and  meet  it. 

His  pale  eyes  flickered  and  fell  before  her  direct  gaze. 

"  Lyra,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  and  with  a  glance  over  his 
shoulder,  "what  do  you  mean  to  do?" 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  bosom  as  if  to  still  the  beating  of 
her  tortwred  heart. 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  275 

"You  can't — we  can't  go  on  like  this,"  he  continued. 
"  You  are  my  wife,  you  know/' 

"  Your  wife?"  she  echoed,  dully. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  watching  her  intently.  "  You  are  my  wife 
right  enough.  You  don't  deny  that — you  can  not — " 

"  No,"  she  breathed.     "  I— I  can  not!" 

He  drew  a  breath  of  relief,  and  smiled. 

"  How  did  you  come  to  marry  my  cousin  Dane?"  he  asked. 
"You  thought  I  was  dead,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  in  a  dull,  stupefied  way;  "I  thought 
you  were  dead." 

He  smiled. 

"  Well,  I'm  not  surprised.  It  did  look  like  it,  didn't  it? 
But  it  was  mistake,  you  see.  Mistakes  will  happen.  The 
man  who  was  drowned  was  a  common  sailor.  We  exchanged 
coats.  He  fell  over  the  quay  that — that  afternoon  we  were 
married.  I  am  your  husband,  and  alive. " 

She  shuddered  and  gripped  the  edge  of  the  balcony. 

"  I  am  your  husband  in  the  sight  of  Heaven,  and — what  is 
more  important — the  law.  I  could  claim  you  here  and  now." 

She  shrunk  from  him,  and  put  out  her  hand  as  if  to  repudi- 
ate his  claim. 

"  That  is  the  fact,  the  plain  statement  of  the  case,  my  dear 
Lyra/'  he  said.  "  I  could  go  to  that  stuck-up  cousin  of 
mine,  Dane,  and  say  '  this  woman  is  my  wife. ' 3 

She  breathed  hard  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"  No,  no!"  she  panted. 

"  Exactly,"  he  said.  "  You  shrink  from  that,  and  so  do  I. 
I'm  one  of  the  family,  and  I  don't  want  to  make  a  scandal. 
I'll  do  anything  to  avoid  it.  Why,  bless  my  soul,  the  world 
would  never  forget  it.  It  would  be  called  the  '  Starminster 
Scandal,'  and  it  would  ruin  us  forever.  Fancy  the  poor  old 
earl  thrown  out  of  place  and  power;  fancy  Dane  dishonored 
and  despised!" 

She  put  out  her  hand  again  pleadingly. 

"  Yes,  of  course,  you  see  all  that  it  means,"  he  said, 
how  are  you  going  to  avoid  it?" 

Her  only  response  was  a  gesture  of  despair. 

"  How  are  you  going  to  avoid  it?    There  is  only  one  way. 
Lyra,  my  dear  "—she  shuddered  at  the  familiarity- 
must  disappear!" 

"  Disappear?" 

She  echoed  the  word  as  if  it  conveyed  no  meaning  to  I 

11  Yes,"  he  said,  drawing  nearer  and  whispering  in  her  ear. 
"  You  must  leave  here— must  leave  Dane  1" 


S76  ONCE    1ST    A    LIFE. 

"  Leave — Dane?"  she  panted,  in  a  tone  of  agony. 

He  nodded,  glancing  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Yes.  What  else  can  you  do?  You  don't  propose  to  re- 
main on  here,  I  suppose?  No  " — he  smiled  sardonically — "  1 
j  don't  think  I  could  stand  that.  And  you  don't  propose  to 
;  blurt  out  the  truth  and  make  a  scandal.  That  would  be  rathej 
rough  on  Dane,  who,  after  all,  isn't  to  blame,  for  I  imagine 
he  is  ignorant  of  our  marriage." 

"  Yes,  yes!"  she  breathed.  "  He  knows  nothing — noth- 
ing! Oh,  if  I  had  only  told  him!" 

"  Ah,  '  these  vain  regrets/  as  the  poet  says!"  said  Mr. 
Chandos.  "  If  you  had  done  this,  or  left  undone  the  other — 
well,  this  muddle  wouldn't  have  occurred.  '  There's  much 
virtue  in  an  if,'  as  Shakespeare  says.  But  what  is  the  use  of 
looking  back  or  considering  possibilities?  You  have  to  face 
the  present  facts.  Here  you  are,  married  to  two  men — to  me 
and  Dane.  It's  true  you  thought  yourself  a  widow;  though, 
by  the  way,  you  might  have  waited  a  year  or  two." 

She  pressed  her  hands  to  her  face. 

"  I — I  was  never  your  wife!"  she  panted.  "  You  tricked, 
betrayed  me  into  a  marriage.  I  was  your  wife  in  name  only!" 

He  smiled. 

"  And  in  law,  my  dear  Lyra,"  he  said.  "  Don't  forget 
that.  As  I  said,  I  could  claim  you  and  take  you  away  at  this 
moment.  I  could  force  you  to  come  with  me." 

"  No,  no!"  she  panted,  shudderingly,  and  shrinking  from 
him  and  his  pale  eyes,  which  were  glittering  threateningly. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,"  he  said,  "  and  don't  speak  so  loudly. 
One  of  them,  Dane  or  that  man  St.  Aubyn,  will  hear  you  and 
come  out,  and  the  fat  will  be  in  the  fire."  Certainly,  Chandos 
had  not  been  improved  by  his  continental  wanderings.  "  Ono 
word  from  me,  and  you  are  ruined,  and  Dane  is  the  laughing- 
stock of  the  world. " 

"  No,  no!  spare  him!"  she  moaned. 

"  I  propose  doing  so,"  said  Chandos.     "  See  here." 

He  took  her  hand,  but  she  shook  him  off. 

"  Don't  touch  me,"  she  said,  with  a  shudder.  "  I — I  will 
listen  to  you,  I  may  do  what  you  tell  me,  but — but  don't 
touch  me." 

"  You  must  leave  Dane,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  impressive 
voice;  "  you  must  leave  him  to-morrow.  You  have  money,  I 
suppose?" 

She  made  a  gesture  of  assent.  Dane  had  opened  a  banking 
account  for  her.  The  income  of  her  settlement  money,  a 
fairly  large  amount,  stood  to  her  credit. 


r 


OffCE    IK    A    LIFE.  277 

"  Very  well;  nothing  is  easier  for  you  than  to  disappear. 
You  can  go  to  London  and  lie  by  there  quietly  until  the  fuse 
and  excitement  have  cooled  down.  Then  you  can  cross  to  the 
Continent.  In  one  of  the  small  towns  in  Normandy  or  Brit- 
tany you  can  live  very  cheaply  and  quietly." 

She  turned  upon  him  suddenly  with  a  kind  of  fierce  deter- 
mination. 

"  And  you?  You — you  will  not  persecute  me,  will  not  fol- 
low me?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  smiled  the  cynical,  self-satis- 
fied smile  which  is  so  hateful  in  a  man. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,  my  dear  Lyra.  My — shall  I  call  it 
fancy? — has  evaporated  long  ago.  I  shall  not  persecute  you, 
as  you  phrase  it.  I  shall  simply  let  you  go  your  own  way; 
and  I  give  you  my  solemn  promise  that  while  you  keep  out 
of  the  way  and  hold  your  tongue,  I  will  hold  mine." 

She  laid  her  forehead  on  her  hands  and  tried  to  think. 
After  all,  beat  her  weary  brain  as  she  might,  was  there  any 
alternative  course  to  that  which  he  proposed?  She  could  not 
stay  longer  with  Dane,  unless  she  were  utterly  reckless  and 
abandoned.  She  could  not  tell  him  the  truth,  and  so  cover 
him  with  the  shame  of  her  own  disgrace  and  dishonor.  No; 
there  was  only  one  thing  possible — flight. 

Dane's  voice  was  heard  behind  them;  he  was  coming  on  to 
the  terrace  with  St.  Aubyn.  She  raised  her  head  and  looked, 
like  a  hunted  animal,  from  side  to  side. 

"Quick!"  whispered  Chandos,  thickly.  ;' Which  is  it  to 
be — yes,  or  no?" 

"  Yes,  yes;  I  will  go,"  she  panted;  then  staggered  away 
from  him  and  entered  the  house  by  a  lower  window. 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

LYKA  lay  awake  all  that  night,  a  prey  to  the  despair  which 
nerves  one  to  action. 

Whichever  way  she  looked,  no  course  seemed  open  to  her 
but  that  which  Chandos  had  suggested,  and  which,  ever  since 
his  reappearance,  had  again  and  again,  though  vaguely,  oc- 
curred to  her. 

She  must  leave  Dane,  must  leave  him  in  ignorance  of 
cause  of  her  flight.     Let  him  think  what  he  would  of  her 
the  worst,  if  it  must  be— but  the  truth  he  must  never 
The  least  she  could  do  was  to  spare  his  honored  name  from 
such  a  scandal  as  the  disclosure  of  iier  double  marru.-c  could 
bring  down  upon  him.     If  the  world  remained  ignorant 


278  OHCE    IN    A 

cause  of  her  Sight,  it  would  blame  her  alone,  and  have  only 
pity  for  him;  but  if  it  were  known  that  he  had  been  66  tricked  " 
into  a  bigamous  marriage,  it  would  treat  him  with  scorn  and 
contempt,  the  mere  thought  of  which  almost  drove  her  mad  as 
she  lay  in  the  silence  and  solitude  of  the  night. 
j       Yes,  there  was  nothing  else  for  her.     It  was  impossible  for 
I  her  to  confess,  impossible  for  her  to  remain,  even  though 
Dane  should  forgive  her;  for  was  she  not  Chandos  Armitage's 
wife? 

To  doubt  of  the  legality  of  the  marriage  that  had  taken 
place  in  the  old  church  never  occurred  to  her;  and  even  if  it 
had  done  so,  she  would  not  have  dared  to  question  it.  To 
whom  could  she  go  with  her  story? 

Toward  morning  she  fell  into  an  uneasy,  dream-haunted 
sleep,  and  awoke  to  find  Mrs.  Leslie,  who  slept  in  an  adjoin- 
ing room,  standing  beside  her  bed. 

Lyra  started — the  start  of  the  guilty — and  raised  herself  on 
her  elbow,  with  a  look  of  terror  in  her  eyes. 

"  What — what  is  it?"  she  breathed,  looking  at  a  letter 
which  Mrs.  Leslie  held  in  her  hand. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  I  have  startled  you!"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  with 
self-reproach.  "  Don't  be  frightened.  I  came  in  to  show 
you  a  letter  that  I  have  just  had  from  Theodosia." 

Lyra  fell  back  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"'is  it  bad  newi?"  she  asked,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Well,  it  is,'*  replied  Mra.  Leslie,  anxiously.  *'  She  has 
sprained  her  ankle  coming  down  the  stairs  of  one  of  those 
wretched  cottages." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Lyra.     "  You  must  go  to  her  at  once." 

Mrs.  Leslie  looked  troubled  and  uncertain. 

"  Well,  she  does  not  ask  me  to  go,  indeed  she  says  I  am  on 

no  account  to  leave  you;  but  I  know  she  would  like  me  with 

her.     But  I  won't  leave  you,  Lyra,  dear." 

I      "  You  must  go  by  the  first  train,"  Lyra  said,  hi  a  tone  of 

•,  quiet  decision  which  rather  surprised  Mrs.  Leslie.    "  Of  course 

I  you  must  go.     I  am  much  better,  quite  well  now,  and  I  would 

not  have  you  stay.     I  will  get  up  at  once.     Poor  Theodosia! 

Why  can  not  I  go?"     Then  she  turned  her  face  away  and 

stifled  a  moan.     She  would  never  see  Theodosia  again!    -"I 

will  get  up  at  once.     It  is  late." 

Mrs.  Leslie  looked  at  her  watch. 

"  It  is,  rather;  you  have  had  a  long  sleep,  I  am  glad  to  say, 
my  dear.  And  you  are  sure  that  you  are  well  enough  for  me 
to  leave  you?" 

Lyra,  by  way  of  reply  got  out  of  bed. 


OtfCE    Itf   A    LIFE. 


"I  should  scarcely  leave  you  then;   but  I  am  dad  to  say 
that  you  are  very  far  from  death's  door  now,  dear,"  Mrs 
.Leslie  said,  with  a  smile;  and  she  kissed  her. 

Lyra  was  about  to  return  the  kiss,  but  checked  herself,  and 
turned  away  with  a  sigh. 

"  I  am  not  fit  to  kiss  her,"  was  her  reflection. 
Mrs.  Leslie  had  only  time  to  snatch  a  hasty  breakfast,  and 
Dane  drove  her  to  the  station  before  Lyra  came  down. 
Breakfast  was  a  "  go-as-you-please  "  meal  at  Highfield,  and 
St.  Aubyn  was  seated  at  the  table  with  his  coffee  and  toast. 
He  rose  and  laid  down  the  paper  as  Lyra  entered,  his  grave 
eyes  scanning  her  face.  Something  in  it  awakened  his  anxiety, 
an  indefinable  expression  which  he  remembered  later  on. 

"  Ought  you  to  get  up  so  early,  Lady  Dane?"  he  said,  ear- 
nestly, as  he  put  a  chair  for  her.     "  I  think  you  must  have 
been  tired  last  night;  wouldn't  it  have  been  wiser  to  have 
taken  a  long  rest  this  morning?" 
She  shook  her  head. 

"No;  I  am  quite  well  and  strong  now,"  she  said;  and  her 
voice  struck  him  as  the  expression  of  her  face  had  done. 

"  You  can't  be  too  careful,"  he  said.  While  they  had  been 
speaking  he  had  got  a  warm  plate  for  her,  and  her  cup;  Dane 
did  not  like  servants  about  the  breakfast-table.  "  What  shall 
I  give  you?  An  omelet?  —  some  fish?" 

She  accepted  some  fish,  but  scarcely  made  a  pretense  of  eat- 
ing it.  He  adjusted  the  blind  so  that  the  sunlight  should  not 
fall  in  her  eyes,  poured  out  her  tea,  and  put  a  footstool  for 
her,  all  in  his  usual  quiet,  matter-of-course,  and  unobtrusive 
fashion. 

"  I  hope  we  did  not  disturb  you  as  we  came  up  last  night," 
he  said. 

"  No,"  she  said,  absently.     "  Were  you  late?" 
"  Well,  we  were,  rather,"  he  said.     He  paused  a  moment. 
"  Mr.  Chandos  Armitage  engaged  in  an  argument  in  the 
smoking-room.  " 

She  shuddered  slightly  at  the  sound  of  his  name. 
"  Yes?"  she  said,  faintly.    "  What  was  it  about?" 
"  Oh,  I  happened  to  mention  the  trouble  those  poaching 
fellows  are  giving  my  people  at  my  place,  and  Mr.  Chandos 
maintained  that  I  was  not  doing  my  duty,  because  I  hail  not 
given  orders  to  my  keepers  to  shoot  the  poacners.    I've  always 
noticed  that  your  gentle  poet  is  generally  a  most  blood-  ihirsty 
individual." 


860  ONCE    LN    A    LIFE. 

"  You  don't  like  him?"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  and  hall 
mechanically. 

St.  Aubyn  colored  and  laughed  shortly. 

"  How  did  you  discover  that?"  he  asked,  with  some  sur- 
prise. "  I  had  flattered  myself  that  I  had  concealed  my  feel- 
nigs  quite  cleverly.  Well,  no;  to  be  candid,  I  don't  like  him. 
I  hope  you'll  forgive  me  for  disliking  so  near  a  relation  of 
yours." 

Lyra  started. 

"  Near  relation?"  she  breathed.  "  Ah,  yes,  he — he  is 
Dane's  cousin.  I  forgot." 

"Yes,"  said  St.  Aubyn,  "and  I  wish  he  were  not.  If  I 
might  venture,  I  should  say  that  he  has  not  found  much 
favor  in  your  sight,  Lady  Dane?" 

Lyra  knit  her  hands  together. 

"  I — I  don't  know.  Why  do  you  say  that?"  she  demanded, 
with  a  kind  of  repressed  fear. 

St.  Aubyn  smiled. 

"  For  the  same  reason  that  you  said  the  same  of  me.  You 
see,  I  know  you  so  well  that  I  have  learned  to  read  your  face," 
he  replied,  quite  naturally.  "  I  think,  with  you,  that  Chan- 
dos  is  a  particularly  disagreeable  person,  the  sort  of  man — " 
he  stopped. 

"  Go  on,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

He  laughed  apologetically. 

"  Well,  I  was  going  to  say  that  I  should  be  sorry  to  put 
any  trust  in  Mr.  Chandos,  and  I  should  be  still  more  sorry  to 
have  to  depend  on  him.  There  are  some  men  " — he  went  on, 
reflectively — "  who  are  always  trying  to  wear  a  mask,  always 
endeavoring  to  keep  then-  character  from  showing  itself  in 
then-  face,  but  who  never  succeed.  Mr.  Chandos  is  one  of 
them.  He  is  a  most  amusing,  accomplished  person — with  the 
mask  on.  Last  night,  in  the  smoking-room" — he  paused. 
If  Lyra  had  been  a  man  he  would  have  added,  "  and  with  the 
whisky  in  " — "  he  dropped  the  mask  and  allowed  Dane  and 
me  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  his  real  self,  and — well,  we  both 
agreed  that  Mr.  Chandos's  professions  of  sentiment  and  noble 
feeling  were  mere  shams,  and  that  there  was  a  very  nice  mixt- 
ure of  the  monkey  and  the  tiger  in  him,  cunning  and  cruelty. 
But  " — and  he  colored — "  I  ought  not  to  say  that  to  you, 
Lady  Dane. " 

"  Yes,  it  is  quite  true,"  she  said,  more  to  herself  than  to 
him. 

St.  Aubyn  looked  at  her  with  surprise. 

"  You  speak  as  if  you  knew  him — had  heard  him  talk,  as 


OtfCE    IN    A    LIFE.  281 

we  heard  him  talk  last  night,  when  he  was  off  his  guard  "  he 
said. 

She  rose,  then  sunk  down  again. 

''  What  are  you  reading  in  the  paper?"  she  asked.  He 
nnderstood  that  she  wished  to  change  the  conversation. 

:<  The  Landcross  case,"  he  said.     "  I  suppose  you  have  not 
seen  anything  of  it,  though?" 
She  shook  her  head  absently. 
ft  No.     What  is  it?" 

"  A  very  unhappy  and  melancholy  one,"  he  said.     "  Lady 
Landcross  has  left  her  husband."     He  did  not  want  to  con- 
tinue the  subject,  which  he  was  sorry  he  had  commenced. 
;  Left  her  husband?"  she  repeated. 

'  Yes;  it  is  a  singular  case.    I  don't  think  it  would  interest 
you.     The  melancholy  part  of  it  is  that  she  fled  from  him 
owing  to  a  misunderstanding." 
Lyra  bent  her  eyes  upon  her  cup. 
"  A  misunderstanding?" 

"  Yes;  ^the  unfortunate  woman  had  concealed  from  him  an 
incident  in  her  life  that  had  occurred  before  their  marriage, 
and,  under  the  impression  that  she  had  brought  dishonor  upon 
him,  she  left  her  home.  She  caught  cold  during  her  flight, 
poor  woman,  and  died." 

"  Unfortunate?"  she  breathed.     "  You  pity  her?" 
St.  Aubyn  looked  at  her  with  surprise. 
'  Why,  yes!    Do  not  you?" 

"  No,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice;  "  you  forget.     She  died! 
She  was  happy  in  that." 
St.  Aubyn  stared  at  her. 

"  But  it  was  all  a  misconception,"  he  said.  "  If  she  had 
but  confided  in  him  and  told  him  everything,  all  would  have 
been  set  right,  and  she  might  be  living  still,  and  as  happy  as 
a  woman  could  be.  I  knew  her — both  of  them — very  well," 
he  went  on,  musingly.  "  They  were  devoted  to  each  other, 
apparently,  hadn't  a  thought  that  wasn't  common  to  them. 
They  were  as  fond  of  each  other  as — as  you  and  Dane  are. 
Poor  Landcross  is  almost  beside  himself  with  grief." 

The  color  rose  to  Lyra's  pale  face,  then  died  away,  all  but 
two  hectic  spots  on  her  cheeks,  which  made  her  large,  sad 
«yes  appear  unnaturally  bright. 

"  She  only  thought  she  was  bringing  dishonor  upon  her  hus- 
band," she  said,  after  a  pause,  and  with  her  eyes  still  down- 
cast. "But  suppose  she  had  been  right — suppose  that  by 
flight  she  could  have  spared  him — would  she  not  have  been 
right  in  leaving  him,  in  disappearing?  Should  not " — she 


283  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

raised  her  eyes,  but  he  had  risen  and  was  standing,  looking  out 
of  the  window,  and  did  not  meet  them — "  should  not  a  wom- 
an's first  thought  and  care  be  the  honor  of  her  husband — 
the  man  she  loves?" 

He  was  thinking  of  the  woman — his  own  wife — who  had 
brought  dishonor  to  him,  had  darkened  his  whole  life,  and  his 
voice  sounded  cold  and  almost  stern  as  he  answered: 

"Yes;  her  husband's  honor — his  good  name  before  the 
world — should  be  dearer  than  her  own  lif  e,  and  it  is  so  in  the 
heart  of  every  true  wife." 

Lyra  rose  and  stood  with  her  back  turned  to  him,  her  hand 
grasping  the  back  of  her  chair,  her  bosom  heaving  with  sup- 
pressed emotion.  It  was  as  if  she  had  heard  the  sentence  of 
death  pronounced  upon  her. 

As  she  moved  toward  the  door  the  dog-cart  drove  up,  and 
Dane  entered  the  hall  and  came  into  the  room. 

His  face  lighted  up  with  a  smile  at  sight  of  her. 

"You  up?"  he  said;  then  as  he  saw  her  white  face  and 
anguished  eyes,  the  smile  died  away.  "  What  is  the  matter, 
dearest?"  he  asked,  putting  his  arm  round  her  as  St.  Aubyn 
walked  out  through  the  open  window. 

She  suffered  Dane's  embrace  for  a  moment,  then  put  his 
arm  gently  from  her. 

"  I — I  am  tired  this  morning,"  she  faltered. 

"  Why  did  you  get  up?"  he  said,  at  once.  "  Go  and  lie 
down.  I  wish  I  had  not  let  Mrs.  Leslie  go;  shall  I  wire  for 
her  to  come  back?  Will  you  have  the  doctor?" 

"  No,  no,"  she  said;  and  she  forced  a  smile.  "  I  will  go 
to  my  room  and  rest.  I  will  not  come  down  again." 

His  face  fell;  but  he  assented  tenderly,  unselfishly. 

"  Do  not.  I  will  see  that  the  house  is  kept  quiet,  and  that 
no  one  shall  disturb  you.  I  was  going  to  ride  over  to  Star- 
minster,  getting  back  to  dinner — there  is  something  the  stew- 
ard wants  to  see  me  about — but  I  won't  go  now." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  on  his  arm,  the  two  spots 
burning  in  her  cheeks  again — "  yes,  I  wish  you  to  go.  I  wish 
you  to;  and — and  " — her  voice  faltered — "  I  will  come  down 
to  dinner — if  I  can." 

The  last  words  were  almost  inaudible. 

"  Will  you?"  he  said,  wistfully.  "  But  you  must  not  over- 
exert yourself,  dearest.  I  will  come  up  and  see  how  you  are 
when  I  come  back." 

He  kissed  her  and  held  her  to  him,  and  suddenly  she  raised 
her  head,  looked  him  full  in  the  eyes,  and  put  her  lips  to  his. 
The  poor  fellow's  face  flushed  like  a  boy's  and  his  heart  leaped. 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  2S3 

fle  was  as  much  in  love  with  her— more,  if  that  were  possible 
— than  on  the  day  before  their  marriage. 

The  flush  was  still  on  his  face  when  he  went  out  in  search 
of  St.  Aubyn.  He  found  him  seated  on  a  bench,  his  head 
bowed,  a  dark  frown  on  his  face.  He  looked  up  with  an  absent 
expression  as  Dane  approached. 

"  Lyra  has  gone  to  her  room;  she  is  not  strong  yet.  But 
she  is  coming  down  to  dinner."  He  paused  a  moment,  then 
added,  in  a  low  voice  that  thrilled  with  gratitude:  "  Do  you 
know,  old  fellow,  that  though  she  is  still  weak,  I  think  that 
hysteria  is  leaving  her."  He  could  feel  Lyra's  kiss  still  on  his 
lips.  '  Yes,  thank  God,  we  shall  have  her  like  her  old  self 
again!  Will  you  come  over  to  Starminster  with  me?" 

St.  Aubyn  shook  his  head.  He  was  trying  to  cast  off  the 
black  fit  which  the  memory  of  his  great  trouble  had  caused, 
but  had  not  yet  succeeded.  He  wanted  to  be  alone  for  au 
hour  or  two. 

"  I  think  not,"  he  said.  "  I  have  some  letters  to  write;" 
and  he  walked  away. 

"  Poor  old  chap!"  murmured  Dane,  as  he  went  off  to  the 
stables. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  afterward  he  rode  off  in  a  brighter  and 
more  hopeful  mood  than  he  had  been  in  since  Lyra's  illness. 

Lyra  went  up  to  her  room.  The  weakness  which  had  almost 
brought  her  to  the  ground  in  the  breakfast-room  had  left  her, 
and  the  strength  of  despair  had  again  come  to  her  aid.  St. 
Aubyn  was  right — a  woman's  first  thought  should  be  for  her 
husband's  good  name.  His  honor  should  be  dearer  to  her 
than  life.  The  only  way  of  saving  Dane  was  by  flight.  She 
must  go.  She  threw  herself  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed  and 
tried  to  plan  out  her  course;  but  alas! — alas!  for  some  time 
she  could  only  recall  the  happy  past. 

"  A  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering  happy  things." 

It  seemed  that  every  loving  word  Dane  had  ever  spoken  to 
her  came  hurrying  across  her  brain.  What  would  he  do  when 
he  learned  that  she  had  left  him? 

The  day  passed  slowly;  the  maid  brought  her  some  lunch, 
but  Lyra  was  lying  on  the  bed  apparently  asleep,  and  the 
ruaid,  afraid  of  waking  her,  set  the  tray  on  the  table,  and  stole 
out  on  tiptoe.  Toward  the  afternoon  some  clouds  came  up  in 
the  sky  from  the  west,  and  the  summer's  brightness  grew  dull 
and  overcast.  A  soft  drizzle  set  in.  She  rose  about  five 
o'clock  and  packed  a  few  things  in  a  hand-bag,  then  ex- 
changed the  simple  but  bright  and  costly  morning  frock  for  a 


284  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

dark  serge  gown,  and  put  a  thick  veil  over  her  hat.  She  was 
feeling  faint,  and  the  sight  of  the  luncheon  tray  reminded  her 
that  she  had  eaten  nothing  since  breakfast,  and  that  she  could 
not  carry  out  her  resolve  without  food.  She  forced  herself  to 
eat  something,  though  every  mouthful  threatened  to  choke 
her;  then  sat  down  to  nerve  herself  for  flight. 

She  knew  that  a  train  left  Highfield  at  six,  and  she  knew 
that,  in  all  probability,  she  could  reach  the  station  by  the  pri- 
vate path  through  the  park  unseen.  Her  plan — if  the  con- 
fused, nebulous  idea  that  surged  through  her  brain  deserved 
such  a  title — was  to  go  to  London.  She  had  money — some  of 
her  own  was  still  left.  In  London  she  could  hide  until — well, 
until  she  could  find  some  situation  abroad. 

She  meant  to  go  without  a  word,  but  at  the  last  moment 
this  resolution  broke  down  before  the  remembrance  of  Dane's 
love.  She  wrote  a  few  words,  inclosed  them  in  an  envelope 
addressed  to  him,  and  laid  it  on  the  top  of  the  jewel  case  on 
the  dressing-table.  In  this  case  she  had  put  all  the  jewelry 
she  usually  wore  (the  diamonds  and  pearls  were  at  the  bank), 
and  she  tried  to  take  the  wedding-ring  from  her  finger,  but 
she  could  not;  with  a  heart-broken  cry,  she  put  her  hand,  with 
the  ring  still  on,  behind  her. 

The  rain  increased,  the  dullness  grew  almost  into  darkness; 
but  she  did  not  notice  the  weather.  As  usual,  the  house  was 
very  still  and  quiet,  but  she  crept  down  the  broad  stairs  as  if 
a  crowd  of  detectives  were  listening  for  her  footsteps,  and 
when  she  had  crossed  the  hall  and  passed  out  at  the  wide-open 
door,  she  ran  unsteadily  to  the  shelter  of  the  shrubbery,  and 
stood  there,  looking  back  at  the  house  with  eyes  that  were 
blinded  with  unshed  tears. 

The  private  path  through  the  park  was  seldom  used,  and 
she  made  her  way  along  it  without  meeting  any  one.  Just  as 
she  reached  the  end  of  it,  and  was  entering  upon  the  road,  she 
thought  she  heard  footsteps  in  the  wood  on  her  left.  She 
stopped  and  put  her  hand  to  her  bosom;  her  heart  was  thump- 
ing; but  the  footsteps,  if  the  sound  proceeded  from  them, 
ceased;  and  after  a  minute's  hesitation,  during  which  she  felt 
like  a  thief,  she  went  rapidly  on. 

As  she  passed  through  the  wicket  gate,  with  its  inscription, 
"  private,"  Mr.  Chandos  stepped  out  on  to  the  path  and  stole 
rapidly  after  her.  He  stopped  at  the  gate  and  watched  her, 
then  drew  back  with  a  flickering  smile  of  satisfaction. 

"  By  Heaven,  she  has  gone!"  he  muttered. 


OtfCE    IN    A    LIFE.  285 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

Now,  strange  to  say,  Mr.  Chandos  was  on  his  way  to  the 
house  to  see  her  and  to  beg  her  to  remain.  Chandos  Armi- 
tage,  it  need  not  be  said,  was  a  coward  at  heart.  He  had 
spent  a  bad  night,  the  result  of  too  much  whisky — and  new 
whisky — consumed  after  he  had  reached  the  inn,  and  had  woke 
with  that  feeling  of  oppression  and  depression  which  copious 
draughts  of  bad  spirits  usually  produce.  He  fell  to  thinking 
as  he  rolled  his  hot  head  on  the  pillow,  and  he  came  to  the 
conclusion  that,  to  use  his  own  words,  he  "  was  playing  a  dev- 
ilish dangerous  game." 

Mr.  Chandos  valued  his  own  skin  even  above  the  chance  of 
coming  into  the  title;  and  it  flashed  upon  him,  in  the  waking 
hours,  that  Dane  was  not  the  sort  of  man  to  let  Lyra  go  with- 
out following  her;  that  in  all  probability  he  would  come  up 
with  her;  then  an  explanation — a  full  explanation — of  the 
cause  of  her  flight  would  fall  from  Lyra;  and  then —  Well, 
Chandos  had  a  wholesome  dread  of  both  Dane  and  the  law. 

So  far  as  the  latter  was  concerned,  he  might,  it  was  true, 
try  bluster,  and  assert  that  the  marriage  in  the  old  church  was 
a  legal  one;  but  even  if  he  escaped  the  law,  there  was  Dane  to 
deal  with;  and  Chandos  shuddered  as  he  reflected  upon  Dane's 
strength,  and  the  readiness  with  which  Dane,  when  his  passion 
was  aroused,  was  accustomed  to  use  it.  Dane  had  once  given 
him  a  severe  thrashing  when  they  were  lads,  and  Chaudos  re- 
membered it  with  an  extraordinary  vividness. 

Yes,  he  had  concluded,  it  would  be  better  to  let  matters 
slide,  and  leave  Lyra  in  peace.  Perhaps  she  or  Dane  might 
die,  perhaps  there  might  not  be  any  son  and  heir  born  to  come 
between  Mr.  Chandos  and  the  title.  Anyway,  it  was  too  dan- 
gerous a  game  to  play. 

He  had  not  risen  till  late,  and  had  strolled  about  all  the 
morning  to  get  rid  of  his  headache,  and  when  his  nerves  were 
a  little  steadier,  and  his  hand  not  quite  so  shaky,  he  had  made 
his  way  through  the  wood,  in  the  hope  of  reaching  the  house 
and  seeing  Lyra  without  being  seen  by  any  one  else. 

And  now  she  was  gone!  Her  dark  dress,  thick  veil,  and  the 
small  bag  were  evidences  that  it  was  indeed  a  flight. 

He  leaned  against  a  tree  and  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  brow, 
as  he  tried  to  decide  what  course  to  adopt.  Should  he  follow 
her  to  the  station  and  persuade  her  to  return  to  the  house,  on 
the  assurance  of  his  secrecy?  But  would  she  be  persuaded;' 


386  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

He  knew  that  it  was  not  selfish  fear  that  had  prompted  her  to 
consent  to  his  proposition.  He  knew  that  she  was  "disap- 
pearing/' because  she  believed  that  by  so  doing  she  should 
spare  Dane. 

"  No,"  he  thought;  "  she  won't  come  back.  There'll  be  a 
scene  at  the  station.  She'll  faint  or  go  into  hysterics  at  the 
sight  of  me,  and  then —  But,  curse  it!  I  must  chance  it!" 

He  went  quickly  through  the  gate,  and  was  hurrying  along 
the  road  to  the  station  when  he  heard  the  rat  ile  of  the  train. 
He  must  have  remained  in  the  wood,  considering  matters, 
longer  than  he  thought.  With  an  oath  he  pulled  up  and  stared 
at  the  tram  as  it  dashed  by  on  the  embankment  before  him. 

"  Should  he  follow  her  to  London?"  he  asked  himself. 
Anyway,  whether  he  tried  to  find  her  or  not,  he  was  off  by  the 
next  train. 

He  turned,  and  was  speeding  to  the  inn  to  pack  his  port- 
manteau, when  a  tall  figure  came  striding  out  of  a  lane  before 
him.  It  was  St.  Aubyn. 

Mr.  Chandos  started  guiltily  and  bit  his  lip  nervously.  Of 
course,  Lyra's  flight  was  already  discovered,  and  here  was 
"  that  fellow  "  on  the  trail! 

He  forced  a  sickly  smile  as  St.  Aubyn  approached,  and 
greeted  him  as  blandly  and  carelessly  as  he  could. 

St.  Aubyn  nodded,  and  seemed  as  if  he  were  going  to  pass 
on;  but  he  stopped,  as  if  by  an  afterthought. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Armitage?  Are  you  going  to  the 
house?" 

His  tone  was  grave  and  preoccupied,  and  Chandos  noticed 
that  he  looked  serious  and  thoughtful. 

"No — that  is — yes!"  said  Chaudos,  with  an  involuntary 
stammer. 

St.  Aubyn  looked  at  him  uncertainly,  as  if  hesitating  and 
doubtful  as  to  some  course  of  action  depending  on  Chandos's 
reply. 

"  You  are?"  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  said  Chandos,  more  boldly.  "  I  was  going  to  in- 
quire after  Lady  Dane.  I  trust  that  she  is  none  the  worse  for 
her  kind  exertion  last  night?" 

He  fixed  his  pale  eyes  keenly  on  St.  Aubyn's  lace. 

St.  Aubyn  hesitated  a  moment. 

"  Lady  Dane  is  not  to  talk  to-day,  and  is  confined  to  her 
Toom,"  he  said.  "  I  am  afraid  she  will  not  be  able  to  see  you." 

He  wanted  to  save  Lyra  from  even  the  chance  of  meeting 
w;th  the  precious  Mr.  Cbaudos. 


ONCE    IX    A    LIFE.  287 

"  Oh,  I  am  sorry — very  sorry!"  said  Chandos,  in  his  sleek- 
est, most  sympathetic  tones. 

"  Yes,"  said  St.  Aubyn,  absently.     He  looked  toward  the 

station.  "  Was  that  the  London  train  just  passed?"  he  asked. 

Mr.  Chandos  shot  a  keen  glance  at  him.  He  did  know,  then'. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  It  has  just  gone.  I  suppose  you  didn't 
want  to  travel  by  it?"  and  he  looked  at  St.  Aubyn's  tweed  suit 
of  knickerbockers  and  gaiters. 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  said  St.  Aubyn. 

Mr.  Chandos  started  and  stared  at  him. 

"  Well,  that's  cool,  at  any  rate,"  he  thought. 

St.  Aubyn  noticed  neither  the  start  nor  stare. 

"  I  have  just  had  a  telegram  calling  me  home,"  he  said. 
"  You  may  remember  my  telling  Dane  and  you  about  the 
poachers  at  my  place?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Chandos,  still  staring. 

"  It  seems  that  there  was  an  affray  last  night  between  my 
men  and  the  poachers,  and  some  rough  work  between  them — 
bloodshed,  I'm  afraid.  I  met  the  telegraph  boy  in  the  lane 
just  now,  and  I  think  I  ought  to  go  at  once." 

"  Well,"  thought  Mr.  Chandos,  with  a  kind  of  contempt, 
"  you  are  about  the  poorest  hand  at  a  plausible  lie  I  have  ever 
met."  But  aloud  he  said  in  a  sympathetic  tone:  "  Of  course 
. — of  course;  but  the  train  has  just  gone." 

"  The  London  one,"  said  St.  Aubyn.  "  But  I  can  catch 
the  next  that  goes  to  Howford  Junction,  and  get  across  to  my 
place  by  a  train  from  there." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Chandos;  "  I  suppose|you  can." 

"  I  trouble  you  with  all  this,"  went  on  St.  Aubyn,  "  be- 
cause I  thought,  if  you  were  going  to  the  house,  you  would 
kindly  take  a  message  to  Dane,  and  tell  him  about  the  tele- 
gram, and  that  I  have  caught  the  next  train.  He  needn't  send 
my  things  on,  as  I  will  come  back  as  soon  as  I  can." 

Mr.  Chandos  could  have  laughed  outright,  but  he  kept  a 
perfectly  serious  countenance. 

"  Certainly,"  he  said;  "  I  will  explain  the  whole  matter  to 
him.  I'm  very  sorry  you  should  have  to  rush  off,  and  on 
such  unpleasant  business." 

St.  Aubyn  didn't  want  Mr.  Chandos  Armitage's  sympathy. 

"  Thanks,"  he  said,  coldly;   and  with  a  nod,  but  with  r 
offer  of  his  hand,  he  strode  on. 

Mr.  Chandos  turned  into  the  road  and  stood  up  under  a  tree, 
and  indulged  in  a  free,  unrestrained  chuckle. 

It  all  seemed  so  plain  to  him  as  he  recalled  St  Aubyn  *  un« 


28$  OKCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

concealed  devotion  to  Lyra.  She  had  decided  to  fly  from  Dane, 
but  not  alone.  No;  she  was  going  to  take  St.  Aubyn  with  her. 

To  any  other  man  or  woman  who  knew  Lyra,  the  idea  would 
at  once  have  appeared  preposterous;  but  the  evil  are  only  too 
ready  to  believe  the  existence  of  evil  in  others;  and  Mr. 
Chandos  would  have  been  quite  ready,  if  required,  to  stake 
his  life  on  ,the  correctness  of  his  hypothesis. 

Yes,  that  was  it.  Lyra,  seeing  that  she  must  leave  Dane, 
had  bolted  with  Lord  St.  Aubyn. 

tc  And  I  thought  last  night  that  she  was  so  terribly  cut  up 
that  I  almost  pitied  her!  Lord!  what  deceitful  creatures 
women  are!" 

Then,  as  he  pondered  over  the  situation,  his  brain  bega^  to 
glow.  Lyra  fled,  Dane  would  not  be  likely  to  marry  again. 
He,  Chandos,  would  be  Earl  of  Starininster,  after  all. 

He  forgot  the  time  as  he  paced  up  and  down,  his  face  flushed, 
his  eyes  blinking  with  pleasant  satisfaction.  Eeally,  Fate  was 
dealing  very  kindly  with  him,  very. 

He  lighted  a  cigarette  with  some  difficulty,  and  enjoyed 
himself  amazingly  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour;  then  he  brought 
himself  back  to  business.  He  must  go  to  the  house  and  see 
the  drama  played  out,  that  was  certain.  Putting  on  his  usual 
soft,  sleek,  contemplative  smile,  the  smile  which  always  sug- 
gested sonnets  and  verses  to  his  female  admirers,  he  walked 
through  the  park  and  entered  the  hall. 

"  Is  Lord  Dane  in?"  he  was  asking,  blandly,  when  he 
heard  the  clatter  of  horse-hoofs,  and  Dane  rode  up. 

"  Halloo,  Chandos!"  he  said,  very  much  more  pleasantly 
than  he  had  greeted  him  a  few  days  ago.  "  Turned  out  wet, 
hasn't  it?  I've  had  a  soaker;"  and  he  stood  on  the  steps  and 
shook  himself,  as  he  had  shaken  himself  that  day  by  the 
stream  up  the  Taw  valley.  "  You  look  wet,  too." 

"  Yes;  I  have  been  walking,  and  looked  in  on  my  way 
back  to  ask  after  Lady  Dane." 

Dane  nodded.     He  forgot  his  dislike  for  Chandos  in  his  ap- ' 
preciation  of  the  little  attention.     Through  Lyra  was  always 
the  nearest  way  to  Dane's  heart. 

"  Thanks.  I  hope  to  find  her  much  better.  She  was  rather 
tired  this  morning.  Come  in." 

"  I  am  so  sorry,"  said  Mr.  Chandos,  sleekly,  as  he  followed 
Dane  into  his  own  den.  "  I'm  afraid  the  presence  of  a  vis- 
itor—" 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right!"  said  Dane,  pulling  off  his  bootn. 
"  I've  been  away  all  day.  Just  wait,  will  you?  If  she  is  not 


OtfCE    Itf    A    LIFE.  289 

able  to  dine  with  us,  Fll  ask  you  to  stay,  and  we'll  have  a 
bachelor's  dinner." 

"  Oh!  will  you?"  thought  Mr.  Chandos;  but  he  looked  very 
grateful  and  pleased. 

"  I  must  go  and  change/'  he  said. 

Dane,  humming  a  line — that  kiss  of  Lyra's  was  not  yet  for- 
gotten!— tossed  him  a  box  of  cigarettes. 

"  Wait  a  moment  or  two/'  he  said.   "  I'll  go  and  inquire." 

Mr.  Chandos  lighted  a  cigarette  with  rather  a  tremulous 
hand.  Was  the  storm  going  to  break  already?  Would  there 
be  time  for  St.  Aubyn  to  get  off  by  that  train  before  Dane  was 
on  his  track? 

Dane  went  up  the  stairs,  and  met  Lyra's  maid  in  the  corri- 
dor which  ran  round  the  upper  portion  of  the  hall. 

"  How  is  your  mistress?"  he  asked,  eagerly. 

"  I've  not  seen  her  ladyship  since  lunch,  my  lord,"  she  re- 
plied. "  She  was  asleep  then,  and  I  think  she  has  fallen 
asleep  again,  for  she  did  not  answer  when  I  knocked  just  now. 
I  trust  that  she  is  asleep,  my  lord." 

Dane  nodded  and  went  on.  He  stopped  at  Lyra's  room  and 
knocked  at  the  door  softly,  then  receiving  no  answer,  opened 
it.  The  light  was  fading,  but  he  saw  Lyra's  gown  where  she 
had  thrown  it  on  the  bed,  and  thought  that  she  was  lying 
there. 

He  took  a  step  into  the  room,  then  stopped.  Of  late  Lyra 
had  started  at  Ms  approach.  He  would  not  awake  her  sud- 
denly and  startle  her.  He  closed  the  door  after  him,  and  went 
down -stairs  to  Chandos. 

"  She  is  asleep,  I  am  glad  to  say.  I  don't  think  I  shall  let 
her  come  down  to  dinner  to-night.  You'd  better  stay.  I'll 
send  to  the  inn  for  your  things." 

And  taking  Chandos's  acceptation  as  a  matter  of  course,  he 
gave  directions  to  a  footman  to  show  Mr.  Chandos  to  a  room, 
and  to  send  to  the  inn. 

The  dress  clothes  came  in  due  course,  and  Mr.  Chandos  ex- 
;  changed  his  wet  walking  suit  for  them.  He  felt  chilled  and 
apprehensive,  and  longed  with  a  longing  beyond  words  for  a 
good  stiff  glass  of  neat  brandy.  The  dinner-bell  rang  and  1 
went  down,  and  a  few  moments  afterward  Dane  entered  the 
drawing-room. 

"Halloo!"  he  said;  "where  is  St.  Aubyn?  &t. 

Aubyn  down  yet?"  he  inquired  of  the  butler. 

"  Lord  St.  Aubyn  is  not  in  the  house,  my  lord,  was  tM 
reply.  "  His  lordship  has  not  been  in  all  day." 

Dane  orew  momentaritv  serious:  then  his  face  cleared. 

10 


290  ONCE    IH    A    LIFE. 

"  We  won't  wait/'  he,  said.  "  He  will  be  in  directly,  and 
he  hates  to  have  dinner  kept  waiting  for  him." 

Dane  and  Chandos  went  into  the  dining-room,  and  the  meal 
commenced.  Dane  was  in  the  best  of  spirits — for  the  first  time 
since  her  illness  his  darling  had  given  him  back  kiss  for  kiss — 
and  listened  with  wonderful  patience  to  Mr.  Chandos's  ac- 
count of  the  pictures  in  the  gallery  at  Madrid. 

"  What  the  deuce  made  you  go  there?"  he  said  once;  and 
Mr.  Chandos  colored  and  started.  "  And  why  didn't  you 
write  to  some  one?  We  all  thought  you  were  dead." 

Mr.  Chandos  took  a  long  draught  of  wine  and  laughed 
feebly.  All  the  time  he  had  been  talking,  he  had  been  listen- 
ing "  with  his  third  ear,"  as  the  Italians  say,  waiting  for  the 
moment  of  the  discovery  of  Lyra's  flight;  and  when  Dane  rose 
and  said,  "  Excuse  me  a  moment,"  he  set  his  wine-glass  down 
so  suddenly  that  it  snapped  at  the  stem. 

Dane  laughed  as  he  left  the  room. 

"  I  wouldn't  give  much  for  your  nerves,"  he  said. 

He  would  have  given  less  if  he  could  have  seen  Mr.  Chan- 
dos's face  during  the  suspense  of  the  next  few  minutes,  in  the 
interval  between  Dane's  exit  and  his  re-entrance  with  the  let- 
ter in  his  hand. 

White  to  the  lips,  with  an  awful  look  in  his  face,  Dane  stood 
with  his  back  to  the  door  looking,  not  at  Chandos,  but  be- 
yond him,  into  vacancy. 

"  My  God!  what  is  the  matter?"  Chandos  faltered  out. 

Dane  did  not  seem  to  hear  him,  but  still  stood,  his  back  to 
the  door,  as  if  to  prevent  any  one  entering.  The  servant  had 
left  the  room  after  the  placing  of  the  dessert,  and  the  two  gen- 
tlemen were  alone. 

"  What  is  it?"  gasped  Chandos,  his  terror  passing  very 
well  for  surprise. 

Dane  put  his  hand  to  his  brow  and  staggered  to  the  table. 

"  She  has  gone,"  he  said,  more  to  himself  than  to  Chandos, 
"  Gone!" 

"  Gone!"  stammered  Chandos.     "  Who— who?" 

Dane  let  his  head  fall  upon  his  breast  and  groaned.  Great 
drops  of  sweat  stood  on  his  brow,  his  lips  writhed,  his  face  WHS 
convulsed.  Mr.  Chandos  thought  that  the  stricken  man  would 
have  a  fit,  and  with  a  trembling  hand  poured  out  some  wine 
and  held  the  glass  to  him. 

Dane  took  it  mechanically  and  as  mechanically  set  it  on  the 
table.  Then  he  rose  from  the  chair  and  confronted  Chandos. 

"  Da— do  you  know  of  anything — do  you?  Oh,  my  God, 
am  I  mad  or  dreaming?  Lyra — my  Lyra — gone,  left 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  291 

Some  one—one  of  the  servants — turned  the  handle  of  the 
door.  Dane  signed  to  Chandos  and  he  ran  forward  and  turned 
the  key. 

"  What— what  on  earth  do  you  mean?  What  are  you  talk- 
ing about?"  he  asked,  shivering. 

Dane  held  out  the  note  to  him,  but  as  Chandos  went  to  take 
it,  he  drew  his  hand  back. 

"  No,  no!"  he  cried,  in  a  kind  of  jealous  rage.  "  You 
shall  not  see  it!  It — it  is  from  her  to  me — me  alone!  Why 
do  you  stand  gaping  there?  Why  don't  you  do  something?" 

He  fell  into  the  chair  again  and  dropped  his  head  on  his 
hands,  unconscious  that  the  note  had  fallen  from  his  fingers. 

Mr.  Chandos  stole  up  and  stealthily  picked  it  up  and  read 
it.  It  ran  thus: 

"  I  am  going  forever.  I  can  not  stay.  Do  not  think  too 
badly  of  me,  Dane.  Pity  and  forgive  me." 

There  was  no  signature,  not  even  "  Lyra." 

Mr.  Chandos  laid  the  note  on  the  table. 

"  C-calm  yourself,  Dane,"  he  stammered.  "  Perhaps  some 
of  the  servants — " 

Dane  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  him. 

"  Why  has  she  gone?"  he  asked — not  Chandos,  but  himself. 

Chandos  ventured  to  play  a  card  very  nervously. 

"  Perhaps — perhaps  Lord  St.  Aubyn  could  tell  us,"  he 
said,  hesitatingly.  "  They — they  were  such  great  friends — 

Dane  did  not  grasp  the  hideous  insinuation  for  a  moment, 
then,  as  it  dawned  upon  his  bewildered,  benumbed  brain,  he 
sprung  from  his  seat  and  seized  Chandos;  but  his  hand  fell 
even  as  it  was  raised  to  strike  him  to  the  ground,  and  he  burst 
into  a  hoarse  laugh. 

"You  miserable  cur!"  he  said,  almost  quietly.  'You 
don't  know  her,  you  don't  know  him,  or  you  would  laugh  as  I 
do  at  such  a  suggestion.  Lyra!— St.  Aubyn!  The  purest 
woman  on  God's  earth,  the  most  honorable  of  men!"  Ho 
laughed  aloud. 

"  I— I  suggested  nothing,"  faltered  Chandos,  rubbing  the 
part  of  his  arm  which  Dane  had  clutched.  "  I  only  said  ho 
might  know.  They  were  great  friends,  weren't  they?  They 
were  like  brother  and  sister — " 

Dane  looked  at  him— a  strange  look. 

"  Go  on!"  he  said,  hoarsely. 

"  That's  all,"  said  Chandos.  "  I  wish  I'd  asked  St.  Aubyn 
where  he  was  going,  and  when  he'd  come  back." 

((  When  did  you  see  him?    Where?"  demanded  Dane. 


292  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

"  I  saw  him  going  to  the  station.  Let  me  see — what  time 
was  it?  Just  before  the  six  o'clock  train,  I  think;  but  I'm  so 
confused  and  upset/' 

"Going  to  the  station?"  said  Dane.  "Are  you  sure? 
Why  should  he  be  going  there?  Why  didn't  he  come  back  to 
dinner?" 

Mr.  Chandos  shook  his  head  meekly. 

"  Don't  you  know?"  he  said.  "  Hasn't  he  left  any  mes- 
sage for  you?" 

Dane  did  not  answer.  The  insinuation  conveyed  in  the 
question  was  working  its  way  like  subtle  poison. 

"  D — n  you!"  he  cried,  in  an  agony  of  passion.  "  Speak 
out!  Do  you  dare  to  hint — "  Then  he  stopped,  and  broke 
into  a  wild,  desperate  laugh. 

"  We  are  both  playing  the  fool !"  he  exclaimed,  hoarsely, 
wiping  the  sweat  from  his  wet  face.  "  I  can  see  it  all.  It's 
— it's  as  plain  as  a  pike-staff.  An  attack  of  hysteria  has  seized 
her,  and  she  has  gone  to  Dosie's!  I  ought  not  to  have  let 
Mrs.  Leslie  go.  My  poor  darling!  My  poor  darling!" 

He  strode  to  the  bell. 

Mr.  Chandos  ventured  io  touch  his  arm. 

"  What — what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"  Order  the  carriage  and  drive  to  Castle  Towers,"  said 
Dane,  almost  calmly. 

"  I — I  wouldn't,"  stammered  Chandos.  "  If — I  were  you 
I  should  keep  the  affair  quiet  till — well,  till  morning.  If — if 
anything  should  be  wrong — " 

Dane  set  his  teeth  hard. 

"  See  here,  Chandos,"  he  said,  "  I'm  not  in  the  mood  to  be 
patient.  I'm  very  much  upset— naturally — by  my  wife's  ill- 
ness, and — and — oh!  my  God!" — he  broke  off  with  a  cry  of 
agony — "  I  must  do  something;  I  must  have  her  in  my  arms 
-—safe  in  my  arms — before  morning,  or  I  shall  go  mad!" 

He  rang  the  bell  as  Mr.  Chandos  unlocked  the  door. 

"  The  break  and  pair,"  he  said.  "  Her  ladyship  has  gone 
to  Castle  Towers  " — a  happy  idea  struck  him — "  Lady  Theo- 
dosia  is  worse." 

In  less  than  half  an  hour  he  was  driving  through  the  night 
at  desperate  speed  toward  Castle  Towers,  and  away  from  Lyra. 

St.  Aubyn  got  into  the  train  very  reluctantly,  for  notwith- 
standing the  urgency  of  the  telegram,  he  felt  a  strange  unwill- 
ingness to  leave  Highfield — strange,  because  he  had  no  special 
reason  for  his  reluctance  beyond  his  desire  for  Dane's  and 
Lyra's  company — that  is,  no  reason  he  could  formulate.  But 


03TCE    DT    A    LIFE.  293 

there  was  something  intangible — something  vague  and  unsub- 
stantial— which  weighed  on  his  mind  and  made  him  uneasy. 

It  was  nothing  more  than  the  strange  expression  in  Lyra's 
eyes,  the  singular  tone  of  her  voice,  while  she  had  been  speak- 
ing with  him  at  breakfast. 

It  haunted  him  and  made  him  uncomfortable,  almost  to  the 
point  of  wretchedness,  as  he  leaned  back  hi  the  carriage  and 
smoked  the  strong  Cavendish  which  he  favored. 

He  reached  the  junction,  and  got  out  to  wait  for  the  train 
that  would  take  him  across  country  to  his  own  station.  It  was 
still  raining,  one  of  those  miserable  nights  which  even  in  sum- 
mer remind  us  that  we  English,  though  so  highly  favored  in 
other  respects,  have  "  absolutely  no  climate." 

Howford  is  a  wretched  station,  one  of  those  which  are  a  dis- 
grace to  the  push  of  the  nineteenth  century.  It  was  draughty, 
and  not  overclean.  There  was  a  miserable  apology  for  a  wait- 
ing-room, and  a  still  more  miserable  refreshment-room. 

St.  Aubyn  went  into  the  latter  and  asked  for  a  cup  of 
coffee,  and  the  young  lady  behind  the  bar  eyed  him  for  a  mo- 
ment, more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger,  and  then  informed  him 
that  there  was  none,  but  that  he  could  have  "  anything  else." 

St.  Aubyn,  who  had  no  desire  to  be  poisoned,  went  out  and 
paced  the  wet  and  draughty  platform.  As  he  did  so,  he  glanced 
through  the  glass  door,  then  stopped. 

A  lady  was  sitting  there — a  lady  in  a  dark  dress  and  wear- 
ing a  thick  veil — and  it  actually  seemed  to  him  that  there  was 
something  about  her — her  figure,  or  her  pose  as  she  leaned  for- 
ward with  her  hands  clasped  on  her  lap — like  Lady  Dane. 

He  walked  on,  and  smiled  at  the  idea. 

"  I'll  tell  her  about  it  when  I  get  back.  Perhaps  it  will 
make  her  laugh,"  he  said.  "It  is  a  long  time  since  she  has 
laughed;"  and  he  sighed  involuntarily. 

So  absurd  did  the  idea  seem — that  a  solitary  woman  at  How- 
ford  Junction  should  be  like  the  peerless  Lyra — that  he  pur- 
posely refrained  from  bestowing  another  glance  at  the  waiting- 
room  as  he  paced  up  and  down. 

His  tram  came  up  at  last;  there  appeared  to  be  no  other 
passengers  besides  himself — for  the  lady  did  not  come  out  of 
the  waiting-room  as  the  train  drew  up — and  he  was  getting 
into  a  smokiug-compartment,  the  door  of  which  a  sleepy  and 
sulkj  porter  opened  for  him,  when  he  heard  him  say: 

"Barnstaple,  ma'am?  Yes,  change  at  Leoford."  And 
looking  out,  he  saw  the  lady  get  into  the  next  carriage.  He 
was  sinking  back  against  the  cushions  when  he  heard  a  voic« 


294  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.' 

"My  bag." 

He  sat  for  a  moment  spell-bound,  then  he  sprung  to  his  feel. 
It  was  Lyra's  voice. 

"  Great  Heaven!"  he  said,  aloud.  "  What  an  extraordi- 
nary thing.  She  is  not  only  like  her  but  has  her  voice." 

Obeying-  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  he  leaped  from  the 
carriage  and  snatched  from  the  porter's  hand  the  bag  he  had 
fetched  from  the  waiting-room. 

"I'll  give  it  to  the  lady,"  he  said;  and  as  the  train  moved 
en  he  got  into  the  same  compartment. 

"  Here  is  your  bag — "  he  began,  but  a  faint  cry  stopped 
him.  She  had  shrunk  from  him  with  her  hands  held  out  as  if 
to  keep  him  back. 

He  caught  the  hands  and  bent  forward  to  look  into  her  face. 
The  light  was — of  course — bad,  but  he  recognized  her. 

"  Good  GodI"  he  exclaimed.     "  Lyra — Lady  Dane!" 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

LYRA  uttered  a  low  cry  and  tried  to  take  her  hands  from 
St.  Aubyn's  grasp;  but  he  held  them  tightly,  and  continued, 
to  look  at  her  in  silent  amazement.  It  did  seem  to  him  in- 
credible that  she  should  be  there,  alone. 

"  Lady  Dane,"  he  said  at  last.  "Is  it  possible?  How  did 
you  come  here?  Why  are  you  here  alone?  Where  is  Dane?" 

Lyra  shrunk  into  a  corner  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

St.  Aubyn  did  not  know  what  to  say  or  do.  He  could 
scarcely  yet  realize  the  fact  of  her  presence. 

"  Has  any  thing  happened?  Have  you  heard  bad  news?"  he 
asked,  gently  and  anxiously. 

"  Yes,"  she  breathed;  "  something  has  happened." 

"You  have  been  sent  for  by  some  relation  who  is  ill?"  he 
suggested.  "  Why  has  not  Dane  come  with  you?  You  ought 
not  to  be  traveling  alone.  But  perhaps  your  maid  is  in  an- 
other carriage." 

Lyra  shook  her  head. 

"No?  Forgive  me,  Lady  Dane,  but — but  I  am  terribly 
anxious.  Will  you  not  tell  me  what  has  happened?" 

"  I — I  can  not!"  she  said  in  a  low,  almost  inaudible  voice. 
"  I — I  have  left — Highfield."  She  could  not  bring  herself  to 
pronounce  Dane's  name. 

"  Left  Highfield!"  echoed  St.  Aubyn,  in  amazement. 
"  Left —  Great  Heaven!  I  must  misunderstand  you!"  He 
looked  at  the  dark  dress,  the  thick  veil  which  &Ue  still  kept 


OKCE    IK    A    LIFE.  2$$ 

down.     «<  Why  have  you  left  Highfield,  and  at  this  time  of 

night? 

"  I— I  can  not  tell  you/'  she  replied.     "  Don't  ask  me. 

Leave  me." 

!St.  Aubyn  shook  his  head. 

j  ^    "  Leave  you,  and  alone!    That  is  impossible,"  he  said. 
'  Lady  Dane,  you  are  in  trouble  of  some  sort.     Will  you  not 
tell  me,  confide  in  me?" 

"  No!"  she  said  as  if  she  were  desperate;  "  I  can  confide  in 
no  one.  I  am  in  trouble,  yes;  but  no  one  can  help  me." 

'''  Not  even  Dane?"  he  said,  in  a  low,  grave  voice. 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  eyes. 

"  Not  even — Dane,"  she  murmured. 

He  thought  a  moment. 

"  Have  you  quarreled?"  he  asked.  "  But  that  is  an  absurd 
question." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  No;  oh,  no,  no!" 

"  I  knew  that  could  not  have  happened,"  he  said.  "  What 
is  it,  then?  Whatever  it  is,  it  must  have  occurred  quite  re- 
cently. You — you  were  all  right  and  happy  this  morning, 
were  you  not?"  he  asked,  as  the  remembrance  of  the  expres- 
sion of  her  face  and  the  tone  of  her  voice  at  breakfast  flashed 
upon  him. 

"  Happy!"  she  echoed,  with  intense  misery;  "happy!  In 
all  the  world  there  is  no  one  so  unhappy,  so  wretched  as  I  am, 
and  have  been!" 

The  confession  was  forced  from  her,  and  startled  him  by  the 
intensity  of  its  despair. 

•'  Great  Heaven!"  he  murmured.  "  And  you  will  not  tell 
me?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  At  least  tell  me  where  you  are  going?" 

:i  To  London,"  she  said. 

"  But  this  train  does  not  go  to  London,"  he  said. 
She  put  her  hand  to  her  head.     It  was  evident  to  him  that 
she  did  not  know  it — that  she  scarcely  knew  where  she  was 
going. 

"  You  were  going  to  London,  to  friends?"  he  said.  "  But 
you  can  not  reach  it  by  this  train,  and  for  hours  to  come  what 
will  you  do?  Lady  Dane,  I  beg— I  implore  you,  if  you  can 
not  confide  in  me,  to  let  me  take  you  back  home." 

"  No,  no!"  she  panted;  "  I  can  riot!  It  is  too  late;  I  can 
never  go  back.  Oh,  believe  that,  and — and  do  not  ask  me  any 
more  questions!  Leave  me.  ' 


ONCE  rsr  A 

"  Yes,  I  must  ask  you  one  more,"  he  said  He  paused, 
then  went  on,  in  a  low  voice  full  of  suppressed  emotion,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  hers,  which  gleamed  through  the  veil.  "  And, 
Lady  Dane,  do  you  know  why  I  feel  that  I  have  a  right  to  ask 
you?  Do  .you  remember  one  day  when  we  were  talking  of 
friendship  between  man  and  woman,  and  you  let  me  say  that 
I  hoped  to  prove  myself  your  friend?" 

She  made  a  gesture  of  assent  with  her  hand. 

"It  is  a  sacred  word,  but  it  does  not  go  far  enough  to  da 
scribe  my  feelings.  Lady  Dane" — he  paused—'  'do  you  re. 
member  the  first  day  we  met?  I  came  into  your  presence  un- 
willingly enough.  I  was  a  woman-hater.  I  had  suffered  the 
cruelest  wrong  that  a  man  can  suffer  at  the  hands  of  a  woman. 
I  had  a  wife  whom  I  loved — "  His  voice  grew  hoarse  and 
broken.  "  But  you  know  my  story;  it  is  all  too  common. 
The  day  she  left  me  I  cursed  her  and  all  her  sex.  The  face 
of  a  woman,  no  matter  how  beautiful  it  was,  was  but  to  me 
the  mask  worn  by  a  devil.  I  think  that  I  would  not  have 
stretched  out  my  hand  to  save  one  of  them  from  a  painful 
death.  You  see,  I  speak  plainly.  That  day  I  came  up  into  the 
balcony  there  at  Rome  and  saw  you,  I  wished  that  I  had  pre- 
tended not  to  see  Dane,  my  old  and  tried  friend,  and  gone  on 
my  way.  You  were  to  me  just  one  of  the  sex  I  hated,  and  I 
meant  to  go  as  quickly  as  possible  and  get  out  of  your  way. 
But  I  stayed.  I  saw  you  again  and  again,  and  gradually  but 
surely  a  change  was  wrought  in  me.  My  eyes  were  opened, 
and  I  saw  what  a  fool  and  cur  I  was  to  deem  all  women  bad 
because  one  had  proved  vile." 

He  paused  and  moistened  his  lips. 

"  You  had  wrought  that  change  hi  me.  It  was  the  charm 
of  your  goodness  which  had  performed  the  miracle  on  my 
blindness;  it  was  the  influence  of  your  presence  that  restored 
me  to  my  faith  in  womankind." 

Lyra,  motionless  and  pale,  looked  at  him  with  sad,  wonder- 
ing eyes. 

' '  I  can  not  tell  you  when  the  charm  began  to  work  in  me. 
I  only  know  that  soon  I  felt  as  a  man  feels  who  fears  to  leave 
the  rock  upon  which  he  has  climbed  out  of  the  deadly 
clutches  of  the  sea.  I  felt  that  if  I  left  you,  if  I  removed  my- 
self from  your  influence,  I  should  sink  back  into  the  life  of 
hate  and  distrust  which  was  worse  than  death." 

Lyra  stirred  with  a  troubled  sense  of  awe. 

"  You  were  unconscious  of  all  this;  I  know  that;  I  have 
known  it  all  the  time.  I  myself  for  a  long  while  did  not  dis- 


OHCE    DT    A    LIFE.  297 

cover  that  ^  had  learned  to  get  back  my  trust  in  woman  be- 
cause I  had  learned  to  love  you." 

Lyra  uttered  a  faint  cry. 

"  You  do  not  shrink  from  me?"  he  said.  "  That  is  right; 
you  have  no  need  to.  I  loved  you,  I  love  you  still,  I  shall 
love  you  till  I  die;  but  it  is  with  a  love  of  which  I  am  not 
ashamed,  for  it  has  never  for  one  instant  bred  an  unworthy 
thought  of  you.  What  is  it  the  man  in  the  play  says?  '  As 
some  saint  niched  in  cathedral  aisle.'  Yes,  that  is  it,  Lady 
Dane;  you  were  just  a  saint  to  me;  something  sweeter  and 
holier  than  a  sister.  I  would  have  laid  down  my  life  for  you, 
and  I  would  as  willingly  have  died  for  Dane,  your  husband. " 

His  dark  eyes  shone  with  the  fervor  which  might  have 
beamed  from  the  eyes  of  the  purest  of  King  Arthur's  knights. 
She  did  not  shrink,  but  an  infinite  pity  welled  up  in  her 
heart,  and  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes.  She  had  shed  none 
for  herself. 

"  I  would  tell  you  all  this  if  Dane  were  sitting  beside  us," 
he  went  on  in  a  low  voice  that  thrilled  her  by  its  earnestness. 
"  I  think,  sometimes,  that  he  must  have  seen  into  my  heart 
and  known  how  it  was  with  me.  Lady  Dane,  my  happiness  is 
only  to  be  found  by  your  and  Dane's  side.  I  said  to  myself — 
ah,  and  how  often  have  I  held  self-communion  on  the  subject! 
— that  if  you  would  accept  my  friendship,  if  you  would  let  me 
see  you,  share,  as  a  spectator  only,  in  your  happiness,  I  should 
be  well  content  to  let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead,  and  live 
only  for  you  and  him.  I  thought  — his  voice  grew  very  low 
and  solemn — "  that  in  the  coming  time  there  would  be  others 
— your  children,  little  ones  having  the  look  of  your  eyes,  the 
trick  of  your  voice — whom  I  could  love,  and  whose  love  I 
could  win  in  return.  And  I  have  said  to  my  tempest-tossed 
soul:  '  Wait  and  be  patient;  there  is  a  life  of  love,  pure  love, 
unstained  by  passion,  before  you.  Be  content  to  be  her  friend, 
their  friend,  knowing  that  your  love  has  won  a  corner  of  their 
hearts  for  you. ' ' 

The  tears  were  running  down  Lyra's  face,     fche  put  up  J: 
veil  with  a  trembling  hand,  then  extended  the  hand  to  him. 
She  could  not  speak. 

He  took  the  hand,  held  it  for  a  moment,  and  did  not  press 
it  to  his  lips  before  he  laid  it  in  her  lap. 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  worthy— not  worthy!"    she  faltered,  bro- 

JiGnlv 

"  Not  worthy!"    He  smiled.      "  To  me  you  have  always 
been  the  best,  the  purest-heated  woman  in  all  the  woi 
You  are  still — " 


298  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

"  No,  no?  not  now!'* 

"  Yes,  now,"  he  said,  almost  fiercely.  "  Do  you  think  that 
I  suspect  you  of  evil?  You!  I  would  as  soon  suspect  one  of 
the  angels  in  heaven!  I  find  you  here  alone,  flying  from  your 
home;  but  I  know  that  the  trouble  is  not  of  your  causing;  I 
know  that  you  have  been  sinned  against,  not  sinning.  I  have 
looked  into  your  eyes,  and  they  are  still  pure  and  untainted. " 

He  clinched  his  hand. 

"  I  know  the  other  look;  I  have  seen  it  too  often;  I  remem- 
ber it  as  it  shone  in  the  eyes  of  my  false  wife.  No,  Lady 
Dane;  others  might  think  ill  of  you,  but  my  love  for  you  gives 
me  the  nower  of  reading  you  as  I  read  this  paper.  I  should 
believe  in  you  though  all  the  world  were  against  you.  And 
now  will  you  not  trust  me,  confide  in  me?" 

"  I  can  not,"  she  said  once  more.  "  You  must  leave  me, 
Lord  St.  Aubyn.  We  must  part  never  to  meet  again." 

"  Pardon  me!"  he  cried.  "  I  should  be  loath  to  desert  any 
woman  in  her  hour  of  need;  I  am  not  likely  to  leave  you. 
Wherever  you  are  going,  I  will  take  you  there  safely.  What 
do  you  think  Dane  would  say  to  me  if  I  were  to  desert  you, 
leave  you,  alone  and  unprotected?" 

She  wrung  her  hands. 

"  There  is  only  one  place  I  can  go,"  she  said.  "  The  man 
said  this  train  went  to  Barnstaple — " 

She  stopped,  as  if  she  did  not  wish  to  tell  him  any  more. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said;  "  we  will  go  to  Barnstaple.  You 
have  friends  there?  We  will  find  them.  Now,  will  you  not 
try  and  get  some  sleep?"  he  added,  gently.  "  I  will  not  talk 
to  you;  indeed,  I  will  leave  you  at  the  next  station  and  have 
the  carriage  locked  and  reserved  for  you." 

She  tried  to  thank  him,  and  closed  her  eyes.  It  was  evident 
to  him  she  was  very  near  physical  and  mental  exhaustion. 

He  went  to  the  further  corner  and  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow. What  he  should  do  he  did  not  know.  At  any  rate,  he 
would  not  leave  her — could  not. 

When  the  train  drew  up  at  the  next  station  he  got  out 
quietly — for  he  thought  she  was  asleep — and  went  for  the 
guard,  found  him,  and  was  coming  back  to  the  carriage  to 
have  it  locked,  when  a  woman  opened  the  door  and  got  in. 

Lord  St.  Aubyn  touched  her  arm. 

"  Where  are  you  going?"  he  asked. 

"  To  Barnstaple,  sir/'  she  replied.     "  Isn't  this  right?" 

"  Quite  right/ '  said  St.  Aubyn.  "  You  won't  mind  having 
the  door  locked  and  the  carriage  reserved?" 


OKCE    IK    A    11REL  299 

He  got  into  the  next  compartment  and  lighted  his  pipe, 
thankful  that  Lyra  had  a  woman  to  keep  her  company. 

The  train  moved  on  slowly.  Lyra  still  lay  in  a  kind  of  half 
stupor  for  some  minutes,  then  she  awakened  and  sat  up  and 
put  her  veil  back.  As  she  did  so  the  woman  on  the  opposite 
seat  looked  at  her,  then  gave  a  cry  of  astonishment  and 
pleasure. 

"  Miss  Lyra!  Is  it  you,  Miss  Lyra — oh!  I  beg  your  par-, 
don;  I  mean,  your  ladyship?" 

Lyra  stared  at  her  wearily,  then  gasped,  "  Mary!"  and 
clutching  her  arm,  clung  to  her  old  servant. 

Mary  was  speechless  with  surprised  delight  for  a  moment, 
then  she  broke  out  into  an  exclamation: 

"  Lor',  miss! — I  mean,  my  lady — 1  can't  scarcely  blieve 
my  eyes!  I  feel  quite  'mazed!  To  think  as  it  should  be  you 
a-sitting  there,  and  I  not  know  it!  But  it  was  the  veil  and 
this  plaguey  light,  and  I  was  in  such  a  stew  a-thinWng  that 
perhaps  I'd  got  into  the  wrong  train,  after  all,  and  the  door 
locked!  But  " — she  broke  off,  looking  hard  and  ankiously  at 
Lyra's  white,  worn  face—"  is— is  anything  the  matter,  miss— 
I  mean,  my  lady?  Dear,  dear!  it's  so  hard  to  remember  that 
you're  married  and  a  great  lady!  Are  you  ill,  Miss  Lyra?  Is 
— is  "—she  looked  at  the  dark  dress—  '*  is  any  one  dead?" 

"  No,"  said  Lyra,  trying  to  retain  her  composure,  but 
trembling;  "  no  one  is  dead,  and— and  I  am  not  ill;  but  I  am 
in  great  trouble,  Mary." 

"  Trouble,  miss?    Oh,  I'm  so  sorry!    And  where  are  you 
goino-,  and  all  alone?    But  you're  not  alone  now,  Mia 
thank  goodness!    Lor'!  to  think  that  I  should  meet  you  in  a 
train,  and  that  I've  only  been  on  the  railroad  once  before  m 
all  my  life,  and  wouldn't  be  now  but  that  my  old  grand- 
mother was  fll  and  sent  for  me!    She  keeps  a  shop  at  the 
place  where  I  got  in,  and  is  very  well  off,  ana  so 
ously— "  I  felt  bound  to  go.     Not  that  I  covet  her  money,  or 
am  one  to  wait  for  dead  men's  shoes-or  women  s,  either.  I 
Lor' !  how  I  do  run  on,  and  you  in  trouble  and  waiting  to  ft 
me  all  about  it!    Don't  mind  me,  Miss  Lyra— I  mean,  my 

^Mary's  "  cackle,"  as  Dane  would  have  called  it,  had  given 
Lyra  time  to  recover  herself.  „   , 

"  I'm  afraid  I  can't  tell  you  about  my  trouble  Mary,  she 
said.  "  It  is  a  trouble  in  which  no  one  can  help  me,and  I 
must  bear  it  alone  as  best  I  can.  TeU  me  about  yourself- 


Cere's  nothing  to  tell  about,"  said  Mary, 


re- 


800  ONCE    IK    A    LIFE. 

training  from  asking  any  more  questions  with  that  true  deli- 
cacy which  persons  of  her  class  so  often  display.  ' '  And  as  to 
Griffith,  he's  just  the  same  as  ever.  He  be  a-gettin'  on  nicely, 
and  have  got  quite  a  little  farm  at  the  Mill  Cottage.  I  go 
over  there  very  often  when  it's  my  Sunday  out,  and  we  always 
I  spend  the  time  talking  of  you.  He  shows  me  your  letters,  and 
'  gets  me  to  read  'em  to  him  every  time,  as  if  he'd  never  heard 
,  'em  before;  and  he's  as  proud  of  'em  as  if  they  were  writ  on 
gold.  Lor',  how  pleased  he'll  be  to  see  you,  Miss  Lyra! 
There'll  be  no  holding  him. " 

Lyra  was  on  the  point  of  saying  that  she  was  not  going  to 
the  cottage,  but  she  paused.  Why  should  she  not  go  there, 
for  a  few  hours,  at  any  rate?  Where  else  could  she  go?  She 
would  be  safe  there,  and  could  rest  and  recover  strength 
enough  to  enable  her  to  continue  her  journey  to  London. 

"  He'll  be  a'most  mazed  " — ("  mazed  "  is  the  Devonshire 
for  "mad,"  "excited.")  "He's  always  hoping  that  you 
might  find  time  to  come  and  see  him,  if  it  was  only  for  a  few 
minutes.  He's  just  the  same  as  ever,  miss — I  mean,  my  lady 
— as  crusty  as  an  old  file  and  as  rough  as  a  bear;  but  it's  only 
outside,  miss;  his  heart's  all  right,  is  Griffith's,  and  it's  al- 
ways *  My  Miss  Lyra,  bless  her!'  with  him.  We  often  talk  of 
old  tunes,  as  is  only  natural.  Ah,  dear!  we  was  all  so  happy, 
wasn't  we,  miss!  Do  you  mind  that  Mr.  Geoffrey  Barle?" 

Lyra  drew  away  from  her  and  averted  her  face. 

"  Terrible  end  for  him,  wasn't  it,  miss?  Griffith  told  all 
about  it.  But,  there;  I  mustn't  keep  on  gabbling,  for  you 
look  tired  and  well-nigh  worn  out.  Let  me  put  this  shawl 
round  you,  for  it's  got  chilly.  Now,  do'ee,  miss;  I'm  only 
a-carrying  it. " 

When  St.  Aubyn  got  out  at  the  next  station,  he  was  sur- 
prised  to  find  Lyra  lying  down  wrapped  in  the  shawl,  and  the 
strange  woman  sitting  beside  her  and  holding  her  hand. 

"  You  know  this  lady?"  he  asked  in  a  whisper. 

"  Lor'  bless  you,  yes,  sir!"  said  Mary  in  a  low,  excited 
voice.  "  It's  Miss  Lyra,  my  old  mistress.  She's  asleep,  sir, 
thank  goodness!  for  she  looks  main  ill  and  troubled,  poor 
thing!" 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  St.  Aubyn. 

"  To  the  Mill  Cottage,  her  old  home,"  said  Mary,  promptly, 
"  I'm  going  to  take  her  there,  and  stay  with  her,  if  1  lose  my 
situation;"  and  she  set  her  lips  firmly. 

St.  Aubyn  murmured  an  inaudible  thanksgiving. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  said;  "  that's  right.  I  will  find  you  a  new 
situation,  if  you  should  lose  your  present  one.  Lady  Armitage* 


OKCE    IN   A    LIFE.  801 

is  in  need  of  you.  Where  is  this  Mill  Cottage?"  he  asked, 
quickly,  for  the  guard  was  impatient. 

"  Where?  In  the  Taw  valley.  Barnstaple's  the  address. 
Don't  you  be  afraid,  sir/'  she  added,  as  St.  Aubyn  glanced 
anxiously  at  Lyra,  tl  I'll  take  care  of  her.  I'm  not  a-going 
to  leave  her,  now  I've  found  her — and  her  wanting  me  too." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  St.  Aubyn,  eagerly;  "  she  does  want  you." 

At  the  next  station  he  managed  to  get  two  cups  of  tea,  and 
brought  them  to  the  carriage.  Lyra  was  still  asleep,  or  in  the 
stupor  of  exhaustion,  and  he  waited  beside  the  carriage  window 
until  the  very  last  moment. 

They  reached  Banistaple  in  the  early  morning.  The  storm 
had  passed,  the  sun  was  shining  brightly.  He  went  to  the 
carriage,  and  told  Mary  to  remain  where  she  was  until  h« 
came  for  them;  then  he  hurried  to  the  telegraph  office,  got  » 
form,  and  wrote: 

"  Come  to  me  at  once — the  Mill  Cottage. 

"ST.  ATTBYN." 

He  addressed  this  "  Armitage,  Highfield,"  and  was  carry- 
ing it  to  the  boy  at  the  pigeon-hole,  when  it  occurred  to  him 
that  he  would  send  it  as  if  it  had  come  from  Lyra. 

He  erased  the  "St.  Aubyn,"  and  wrote  "Lyra"  in  its 
place. 

"  Send  this  off  at  once.  How  long  will  it  take  getting 
there?" 

"  Not  long,  sir.  The  line's  clear  in  the  morning,"  said  the 
boy. 

St.  Aubyn  engaged  a  fly,  and  then  ran  back  to  the  carriage 
where  Lyra  and  Mary  were  waiting  for  him. 

He  took  Lyra's  hand,  then  held  her  arm  as  she  alighted,  for 
she  appeared  almost  too  weak  to  stand. 

Without  a  word  she  allowed  him  to  lead  her  to  the  fly,  and 
in  silence  they  made  their  way  through  the  town  to  the  Taw 
valley,  Lyra  leaning  back  and  holding  Mary's  hand,  and  look- 
ing straight  before  her  with  eyes  that  seemed  to  see  nothing 

But  when  the  fly  rattled  down  the  rough,  uneven  road  to  the 
cottage,  and  the  house  came  in  sight,  she  uttered  a  faint  cry, 
and  her  hand  convulsively  clutched  Mary's. 

At  the  sound  of  carriage  wheels  Griffith  came  put  of 
porch  and  staggered  down  the  path.     At  sight  of  Lyra,  his 
rugged  face  worked  convulsively,  and  his  fierce  eyes  gleamet 
and  blinked. 

"  Miss  Lyra!"  he  gasped.        Miss  Lyra!  . 

Lyra  stood  up  in  the  fly  and  hel  1  out  her  hand  to  him. 


302  ONCE  IK  A  UFE. 

"  Griffith!"  she  cried.     "  Griffith!" 

He  took  her  in  his  arms,  as  he  had  been  wont  to  do  when 
she  was  a  mite  of  a  child,  and  lifted  her  bodily  from  the  car- 
riage, and  held  her  as  if  in  defiance  of  the  whole  world. 

"You've  come  back  to  me,  Miss  Lyra!"  he  murmured, 
hoarsely.  "  You've  come  back  at  last!"  and  completely  dis- 
regarding the  others,  he  carried  her  into  the  cottage. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

drove  like  Jehu.  When  he  reached  Castle  Towers  the 
horses  were  wet  with  sweat  and  flecked  with  foam,  biit  other- 
wise none  the  worse  for  their  sharp  spin.  The  vague  suspicion 
and  dread  which  Chandos's  hint  and  insinuation  had  raised  in 
Dane's  mind  had  been  scattered  by  the  cool  night  wind  through 
which  he  had  rushed. 

There  was  still  a  dim  light  burning  in  the  hall,  and  at  the 
sound  of  the  carriage,  the  butler  came  to  the  door. 

He  did  not  recognize  Dane  for  a  moment,  and  started  and 
stared  when  he  did  so. 

"  Oh,  my  lord,  is  anything  the  matter?"  he  inquired. 

"No,  no!"  said  Dane;  "that  is,  nothing  to  be  alarmed1 
about."  He  was  just  going  to  ask  if  Lady  Dane  was  there, 
but  checked  himself.  "You  are  up  late,"  he  said.  "  Don'fc 
trouble  to  ring  for  a  groom;  I'll  take  the  horses  round  to  the 
stable." 

"  Certainly  not,  my  lord;  the  groom  will  be  round  in  a  few 
minutes.  I'm  very  glad  I'm  up.  I  was  waiting  for  the  mas- 
ter. Come  in,  my  lord;  I'll  stand  by  the  horses." 

"  They  won't  run  away  to-night,  poor  beasts,"  he  said, 
grimly.  "  I've  come  quickly.  Mr.  Fanshawe  is  out,  you 
say?" 

'  Yes,  my  lord,"  replied  the  butler,  as  he  patted  the  horses 
and  looked  with  some  surprise  at  their  spent  condition.  "  He 
has  been  called  out  to  see  a  sick  man." 

"  How  is  Lady  Theodosia?"  asked  Dane,  fighting  hard  to 
keep  the  question  "  Where  is  Lady  Dane?"  from  his  lips. 

Thank  you,  my  lord;  her  ladyship  is  better,  but  her 
ankle  is  very  painful,  and  her  ladyship  can't  get  any  sleep  at 
night.  I'm  afraid  she's  awake  now;"  and  he  glanced  up  at 
the  lighted  window  of  Lady  Theodosia' s  room. 

A  groom  came  up  and  took  the  horses,  and  Dane  went  into 
the  hall.  As  he  did  so,  Mrs.  Leslie  iocked  over  the  balustrade. 

"  Is  that  you,  Martin?  How  is  he?  Why,  Lord  Dane  "— 
she  broke  off,  starting  at  sight  of  him — "  is  it  you?  Oil, 


ONCE    IK    A    LIFE.  303 

there  is j  something  the  matter!"  and  she  was  down  the  stairs 
and  at  nis  side  in  a  moment.     "  What  is  it'?    Lyra?" 
His  face  grew  pale  again. 

'"'  Lyra  is  here,  is  she  not?"  he  said,  gripping  her  hand 
fiercely. 

«  AT  LF^Ifty  Dane— here?"  she  faltered,  with  amazement. 
No!    Oh,  Lord  Dane,  why  did  you  think  that?    Where  is 
she?'- 

He  drew  her  into  a  room  and  closed  the  door. 

"  Are  you  sure  she  is  not  here?  You  are  not  deceiving 
me?" 

"  Deceiving  you,  Lord  Dane?  No,  no;  we  have  not  seen 
her;  she  is  not  here.  Why  should  I  or  any  one  else  deceive 
you?" 

"  God  knows!"  he  said,  bitterly.  "  Read  that!"  and  he 
thrust  the  crumpled  note  into  her  hand. 

Mrs.  Leslie  read  it,  and  stared  from  it  to  him  with  surprise 
and  dismay. 

"  I — I  don't  understand!"  she  gasped. 

"  No,  nor  I.  Who  does  understand  it?  Is  there  any  one 
who  can  explain  it  to  me?"  he  demanded,  wildly.  "  Why 
has  she  gone — left  me — who — who  loved  her  so,  and  where  has 
she  gone?  Does  Dosie  know?  Can  she  tell  me?  Will  she 
tell  me?  I'm  stifling  and  choking  with  this  mystery  and  sus- 
pense!" 

"  Oh,  be  calm,  Lord  Dane,"  she  implored,  "  and  let  me 
think!  No,  Dosie  does  not  know.  She  has  had  no  letters 
save  those  I  have  seen;  and  only  an  hour  ago  she  was  wonder- 
ing whether  you  and  Lyra  would  come  here.  Dosie  is  incapa- 
ble of  concealment  or  deceit;  but  I  need  not  tell  you  that." 

"  Then  who  does  know?"  he  said,  fiercely.  "  Some  one 
must  be  able  to  explain  that — that  note.  Give  it  to  me!"  and 
lie  almost  snatched  it  from  her  hand  and  began  pacing  the 
room.  "  My  God!  what  shall  I  do?  where  can  I  seek  her?" 
he  groaned. 

Mrs.  Leslie  put  her  hand  to  her  head. 

"It  is  all  dark  to  me,"  she  said.  "Oh,  if  I  had  only 
stayed  with  her!  I  will  go  and  tell  Dosie." 

"  No,  no!"  he  said;  "  she  is  ill;  it  can  do  no  good."  Then, 
forgetting  what  the  butler  had  said,  he  inquired,  as  if  by  a 
sudden  impulse:  "  Where  is  Martin?'- 


can 

and  helpful. 


304  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

"  Where  is  he?"  demanded  Dane,  hoarsely. 

"  He  has  gone  down  to  the  village  to  see  a  man  who  is  fl\. 
He  is  at  the  cottage  where  Dosie  slipped  down  the  stairs  and 
sprained  her  ankle.  The  poor  fellow  is  a  stranger  in  the  place, 
and  very  ill  indeed — dying,  the  doctor  says.  Martin  was  sent 
for  an  hour  ago,  and  I  don't  know  how  long  he  may  stay — all 
night,  perhaps.  Martin  never  spares  himself.  Shall  1  send 
for  him?  I  must." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Dane;  "  tell  me  where  the  place  is,  and  I 
will  go  to  him.  I  will  not  detain  him  more  than  five  minutes; 
that  will  be  long  enough  to  tell  me  that  he  can't  help  me;" 
and  he  groaned. 

"  Oh,  don't  despair,  Lord  Dane!"  she  implored  him,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes.  "  It  will  all  come  right." 

"  Don't  talk  like  that,  or  you  will  drive  me  mad!"  he 
said,  hoarsely.  "  I  can  see  my  darling  at  this  moment  in  all 
sorts  of  dangers  and  perils — alone,  friendless — " 

Mrs.  Leslie  ran  and  got  him  a  glass  of  wine. 

"Oh,  drink  it  to  please  me!"  she  said.  "You  must  not 
break  down — be  strong,  for  her  sake,  Lord  Dane." 

He  gulped  down  the  wine. 

"  Now,  tell  me  where  this  cottage  is,"  he  said,  putting  on 
his  hat. 

She  told  him. 

"  You  can  not  mistake  it;  it  is  the  third  cottage  on  this  side 
of  the  church.  You  will  see  a  light  in  the  bedroom  window. 
You  will  come  back?" 

"  I  can't  tell,"  he  said. 

As  he  went  out  he  told  the  groom  to  have  the  horses  fed, 
rubbed  down,  and  harnessed. 

"  I  may  want  them  again  in  an  hour,"  he  said. 

It  was  a  lovely  night.  The  stars  were  shining  down  upon 
the  sleeping  village;  all  was  peace — a  peace  which  jarred  like 
a  discordant  note  upon  Dane  s  tortured  heart. 

He  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  the  cottage;  the  light  in  the  - 
eick-room  guided  him.     He  found  the  door  open — as,  indeed,  ! 
were  most  of  the  doors  in  that  happy  and  honest  little  place — 
and  he  went  in  and  knocked  softly  against  the  panel. 

Martin  Fanshawe  came  to  the  head  of  the  stairs. 

"  Dane!"  he  said,  in  a  hushed  voice,  but  with  his  usual 
calmness.  "  What  is  wrong?  Come  up,  will  you?" 

Dane  went  up  and  followed  him  into  the  small  room.  The 
candle-light  fell  upon  a  man  lying  on  the  bed.  At  a  glance 
Dane  saw  that  he  was  dying. 

"  You  can  speak  before  him,"  said  Martin;  "  ths  poor  fel- 


ONCE    IN    A   LIFE.  305 

Jow  is  unconscious.  I  can  not  leave,  for  I  have  sent  the  woman 
of  the  house  for  the  doctor,  and  I  am  taking  charge  of  him. 
Is  it  anything  serious?" 

Before  this,  the  greatest  of  all  troubles,  Dane  felt  his  own 
ahrink  and  dwindle. 

"  It  is  Lyra,"  he  said.     "  She  has  gome!" 

In  a  few  broken  words  he  told  his  story.  Martin  looked 
grave  and  troubled,  but  calm  and  self-possessed.  How  many 
terrible  stories  of  sorrow  and  sin  he  had  to  listen  to  and  advise 
upon! 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said,  and  he  gently  pressed  Dane's  shoul- 
der. "  Let  me  think.  You  have  no  clew,  you  say?" 

"  None,"  said  Dane,  in  a  hoarse  undertone.  Both  men 
spoke  in  a  whisper  for  fear  of  disturbing  the  dying  man. 

"  Is  there  no  one  of  whom  you  can  think  to  whom  she 
would  naturally  go?  Consider,  and  be  calm.  I  know  what 
you  are  feeling.  I  sympathize  with  you  fully.  Lyra  is  dear 
to  all  of  us — to  me,  to  Dosie.  We  must  keep  our  heads  cool, 
Dane.  We  can  do  nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  until  the 
telegraph  opens  at  eight  o'clock.  Be  sure  of  this,  that  your 
wife — our  dear  Lyra — is  in  God's  hands.  They  are  stronger 
than  ours,  strong  to  protect  and  guard  her." 

At  these  kind,  wise  words,  poor  Dane  nearly  broke  down, 
as  he  pressed  the  hand  Martin  held  out  to  him.  Martin  went 
to  the  bed  and  bathed  the  forehead  of  the  dying  man,  and  was 
then  returning  to  Dane's  side,  when  the  man  spoke. 

"Send — send  for  him!  Tell  him  I  have  something  to  tell 
him — something  I  must  tell  him!"  he  said,  feebly. 

Martin  went  back  to  the  bed  and  took  the  man's  hand. 

"  If  you  mean  me,  Martin  Fanshawe,  I  am  here,"  he  said. 

The  man  opened  his  eyes — already  dimmed  by  the  death 
film — and  looked  up  at  him  with  piteous  imploration. 

"  I — I  knew  you  would  come  if  they  sent,"  he  said. 
"  You  have  been  very  kind  to  me— you  and  Lady  Theodosia, 
God  bless  her!  Fanshawe,  I— I  have  something  on  my  mind. 
It  weighs  heavily  upon  me.  I  feel  as— as  if  it  was  keeping 
me  from  dying,  and  God  knows  I  want  to  die  and  be  at  rest 
badly  enough.  How  hot  it  is!  Hell's  hot,  they  say!" 

"  Hush,  hush!"  said  Martin  Fanshawe;  "  there  is  no  hell 
for  the  repentant  sinner,  my  friend.  If  you  have  anything  to 
tell  me,  any  sin  which  you  repent,  and  which  you  wish  to  con- 
fess, tell  me." 

He  glanced  at  Dane,  who  rose  to  leave  the  room. 

"  Who  is  that?"  asked  the  dying  man. 

<£  A  friend  of  mine,"  said  Martin.     "  He,  too,  is  in  acre 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

trouble.  He  will  leave  us  that  you  may  speak  without  re- 
serve." 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  man.  "  Let  him  stay.  What  I've  to 
tell  you  is  best  told  with  a  witness.  It  does  not  concern  myself 
alone.  Let  him  come  nearer  and — and — listen.  Take  down 
every  word  I  utter.  Give  me  that  Bible  you  left  for  me." 

Martin  reached  the  Bible  from  the  drawers  beside  the  bed 
and  placed  it  in  the  man's  hand.  He  grasped  it,  and  slowly 
lifted  it  to  his  lips. 

"  You — you  are  a  magistrate,  are  you  not?"  he  asked,  in  a 
hollow  voice. 

"  I  am,"  said  Martin  Fanshawe;  "  so  also  is  my  friend." 

"  Good!"  he  said,  with  evident  satisfaction  in  his  thin 
tones.  "  I  want  to  tell  you  about  a  piece  of  villainy  in  which 
I  was  concerned.  A  man  I  know — an  old  college  chum — came 
to  me  and  asked  me  to  take  part  in  some  amateur  theatricals. " 

His  voice  failed  him,  but  he  fought  against  his  weakness 
then,  and  until  the  end  of  his  confession,  with  a  stubborn 
persistence  which  seemed  to  thrust  death  aside  by  sheer  force 
of  will. 

"  That  is  what  he  called  it,  but  I  saw  that  it  was  something 
more  serious  than  play-acting.  He  knew  all  about  my  past 
history,  and  that  I'd  meant  to  go  into  the  Church,  and  he 
wanted  me  to  play  the  part  of  a  parson  at  a  wedding.  Take 
that  down." 

Martin  wrote  rapidly  in  his  note-book. 

"  I  have  it,"  he  said,  hi  a  low  voice. 

"  Every  word?  Good.  I  was  hard  up,  stone-broke,  at  the 
time,  up  to  my  neck  in  debt,  and  altogether  helpless.  I  drank 
too.  He  gave  me  enough  liquor  to  drown  what  little  conscience 
was  left  to  me,  and  I  consented  to  do  what  he  required  of  me^, 
on  condition  of  a  lump  sum  down  and  my  passage  paid  to  one 
of  the  colonies.  He  was  a  plausible  devil,  and  held  out  hopes  " 
— he  broke  off  and  laughed — a  ghastly  laugh  of  self -mock- 
ery— "  as  if  reformation  was  possible  to  such  as  I  am!  I  con- 
sented, and  left  all  the  arrangements  to  him.  He  was  to 
bring  the  girl  to  an  old  church  on  a  certain  day,  and  there  I 
was  to  marry  them — or  to  pretend  to  marry  them." 

He  stopped,  and  labored  for  breath. 

" Give — give  me  some  water." 

Dane  held  a  cup  to  the  parched  lips,  and  the  man  thanked 
him. 

"  The  day  came,  and  though  I'd  more  than  half  resolved  to 
break  my  promise  and  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,  the  money 
and  the  hope  of  a  fresh  chance  in  life  were  too  much  for  me. 


OKCE    Itf    A    LIFE.  30? 

and  I — I  went.  It  was  an  old  church."  He  shuddered.  "I 
can  feel  the  damp  of  the  place  hi  my  bones  at  this  moment. 
My  friend  appeared  with  the  girl.  I'd  expected  to  see  some 
servant  or  farmer's  daughter,  but  the  moment  I  saw  her  I 
knew  that  she  was  a  lady.  She  was  " — he  groaned — "  she 
was  very  beautiful,  but  it  wasn't  only  her  beauty.  It  was 
something  else  in  her  face  that  went  to  my  heart,  and  made 
me  feel  like  a  devil  in  the  bottomless  pit.  I  could  see  that  she 
was  innocent — innocent  as  a  child — though  the  man  had  tried 
to  make  her  out  a  willing  party  hi  the  sham.  I  could  see 
that  she  believed  the  marriage  was  all  right  and  correct,  and 
that — that  the  man  who  had  bribed  me  to  destroy  her  was  true 
and  honest.  More  water!"  he  panted.  "My  blood's  on  fire 
at  the  thought  of  it  all!" 

Dane  held  the  cup  to  his  lips  again. 

"  I'd  have  backed  out  then — before  God,  I  wanted  to  do  so, 
I  tried  to  do  so,  but  the  devil  in  human  shape,  who  had  got 
me  in  his  grip,  taunted  and  goaded  me  on.  I — I  went  through 
the  farce  of  marrying  them!" 

His  lip  twitched,  and  he  groaned  heavily. 

"  Raise  him,"  said  Martin,  in  a  low,  solemn  voice. 

Dane  put  his  arm  round  the  man  and  raised  him. 

"  If  I  had  lived  to  be  a  hundred,  instead  of  dying  in  my 
prime,  I  should  have  remembered  her  face  as  she  stood  in  the 
old  church.  She  was  pale  and— and— she  tried  to  smile- 
He  stopped  and  moaned.  "  My  friend  gave  me  the  money, 
and  I  went  out— like  Judas.  I  wish  I  had  hanged  myself,  like 
him!  I  left  them,  left  her  to  fate,  like  the  cur  and  devil  ] 
was,  and  that  same  day  sailed  for  Australia." 

Martin  wrote  rapidly. 

"  I  have  it  all  down,"  he  said.  "  Is  there  anything  more 
—the  names?" 

The  dying  man  nodded  feebly. 

"  Yes.  I  went  to  Australia  and— and  I  tried  to  turn  over 
a  new  leaf.  I  think  I— I  should  have  done  well  and  succeeded. 
I— I  was  no  fool,  and— and  there  is  a  chance  over  there  for 


face  haunted  me.     I  saw  it  every  n 

carried  it  about  with  me  all  day.     61  the  middle  of  my  work 

it  would  come  between  me  and  whatever  I  was  doing,  a    l- 

and— I  took  to  drink  again  to  drown  her  face,  the  memon  o 

the  wronz  I'd  done  her?    Look  here  !-you're  a  parson.    Jfert 

Sunday,  when  you're  preaching,  tell  them  that  i 

sin  isn't  punished  in  this  world,  they  make  a  great  mistake. 


308  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

It  is. .  The  worst  man  in  the  world  has  a  conscience,  and  it 
will  make  a  hell  for  him  if  he's  done  one  half  as  bad  a  deed  as 
I  did  that  day." 

Martin  Fanshawe  sighed. 

"  Would  that  all  sinners  could  hear  you!'*  he  murmured. 

"  I  left  Australia.  I  didn't  seem  able  to  stay  in  any  place 
long.  I  wandered  about,  working  sometimes,  drinking  always. 
I  lived  the  life  of  a  dog;  worse,  the  life  of  a  man  haunted  by 
remorse.  One  day — I  was  in  Rome — I  got  into  the  hands  of 
the  police.  I  forget  what  was  the  matter.  Drink,  I  dare  say 
— I  forget.  They  were  dragging  me  off  to  the  station.  There 
was  a  crowd.  On  the  edge  of  it  I  saw" — he  paused  and 
struggled  for  breath — "  I  saw  her.  For  a  moment  or  two  I 
thought  I  had  got  D.  T.,  and  that  it  was  only  an  hallucina- 
tion. Then  she  spoke,  and  I  knew  it  was  she,  the  girl  with 
the  beautiful,  innocent  face,  that  I'd  pretended  to  marry. 
And  she  pleaded  for  me,  she,  the  girl  I'd  ruined!  There  was 
a  man  with  her — I  don't  now  who  he  was — her  husband,  per- 
haps— but  he  paid  some  money — I  think  it  was  my  rent  I  was 
in  trouble  for — and  I  was  free.  She — she  I'd  sinned  against, 
she  I'd  betrayed  with  the  hands  of  a  devil  in  human  form — 
had  saved  me!  Give  me  some  water — water  I"  he  broke  off, 
gasping. 

Dane  put  the  cup  to  his  lips  once  more,  and  the  dying  man 
tried  to  drink,  but  in  vain. 

"  I'm — I'm  nearly  played  out!"  he  panted,  almost  inaud- 
ibly.  "  There's  no  more  to  tell.  I  tried  to  drink  myself 
dead.  They — they  turned  me  out  of  Rome.  I — I  came  to 
England,  and — and  fell  ill  here.  I — I  knew  I  was  dying;  I 
told  your  wife  so.  I'm  glad  of  it!  What  does  such  a  wretch 
as  I  am  want  with  life?  If  I  lived  to  be  a  hundred,  as  I  said, 
I  should  always  be  haunted  by  her.  Yes,  I'm  glad  I'm  dying! 
Have — have  you  taken  down  all  I've  told  you?"  he  demanded, 
in  a  hollow  whisper. 

Martin  inclined  his  head. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  But  your  confession  is  incomplete;  yon 
have  given  us  no  names,  no  dates.  I  trust — I  greatly  trust 
that  the  wrong  you  did  may  be  set  right.  God  works  in  a 
mysterious  way.  He  has  sent  you  here — has  sent  us  here  to 
receive  this  confession  of  yours.  There  is — there  must  be 
some  Divine  purpose  in  it.  Tell  us  the  name  of  the  man  who 
tempted  you — the  name  of  the  unfortunate  girl  whom  you 
deceived." 

Rawdon  raised  his  hand  to  his  lips. 

"  My  name  is  Rawdon — Robert  Rawdon,"  he  said,  in  so  low 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  309 

a  voice  that  Martin  and  Dane  had  to  bend  down  to  catch  it 
"  The  man  who  persuaded  me  to — to  play  the  part  in  the 
mock-marriage  was —  Water!  Oh,  God,  I  am  dying!" 

Dane  bathed  his  face,  and  Martin  got  a  few  drops  of  brandy 
through  the  fast-clinching  lips.  Rawdon  made  a  fierce  fight 
with  death,  and  for  a  few  minutes  conquered. 

"  The  man  was  Chandos — Chandos  Armitage.  Take  it 
down — I  swear  it!  The  old  church — St.  Mark's — Barnstaple. 
In — in  the  valley — near  the  river — ': 

Dane  started,  but  still  held  the  dying  man  in  his  arms. 

Martin  wrote  word  for  word. 

"  The  girl?"  he  said,  solemnly. 

"  The  girl?"  It  was  evident  that  Rawdon  was  battling 
with  the  shadow  of  death  that  threatened  to  obliterate  his 
memory  as  well  as  his  power  of  speech.  "The  girl?  She 
pleaded  for  me;  she — she  saved  me  that  day  in  Rome — and 
I  had  ruined  her!  Oh,  God,  forgive  me!" 

"  Her  name?"  said  Martin,  solemnly. 

"Her  name?"  panted  Rawdon.  "  I— I  forget  it  It  is 
all  dark,  dark!" 

His  voice  ceased.  The  two  men  beside  the  bed  exchanged 
glances. 

"  It  is  too  late,"  said  Martin,  gravely. 

But,  as  if  he  had  heard  the  words  and  understood  them,  the 
dying  man  opened  his  eyes,  and  almost  inaudibly  breathed: 

"Lyra  Chester!" 

For  a  moment  Dane  did  not  realize  all  the  name  meant; 
then  he  uttered  a  cry— a  cry  of  horror. 

The  dying  man  heard  it  and  turned  his  eyes  upon  him. 

"  Lyra  Chester,"  he  repeated.  "  I— I  ruined  her,  and— and 
uhe  pleaded  for  me!  Tell  her  that— that  ever  since  that  day 
— I'd  have  given  my  life  to  undo — ' 

His  voice  failed,  a  shudder  convulsed  his  worn  frame,  a] 
he  sunk  into  Dane's  arms. 

Martin  Fanshawe  knelt  beside  the  bed,  and  his  deep  voi 
broke  the  stillness  of  death  with  the  Lord's  prayer: 

"  Forgive  us  our  trespasses  as  we  forgive  those  who  1 
against  us," 

CHAPTER  XLL 

DALE'S  face,  as  he  looked  at  Martin  Fanshawe,  was .almost 
as  white  as  foe  dead  man's.     Without  a  word,  he  staggp 
down-stairs  into  the  open  air. 


310  ONCE    I5T    A    LIFE. 

Martin  followed  Mm,  after  a  few  minutes,  the  woman  of  the 
house  having  returned,  and  took  his  arm. 

"  Dane,  Dane!"  he  said,  as  Dane  tried  to  shake  him  off. 
a  !My  poor  Dane!  You  mustn't  give  way;  you  must  keep 
calm.  I  wish  that  I  could  say  that  I  did  not  think  what  we 
have  just  heard  was  true." 

"  It  is  true  enough!"  broke  in  Dane,  hoarsely.  "It  is 
true  enough.  Oh,  my  God!  Married!  She  is  not  my  wife! 
And  married  to — Chandos!"  He  leaned  against  the  fence  ai  <1 
bowed  his  head  in  his  hands,  as  if  completely  crushed.  A  mo- 
ment or  two  afterward  he  looked  up.  "  I  don't  believe  it!  I 
won't  believe  it!  No  one  but  a  fiend  could  have  been  as  false 
and  treacherous  as  that  man  says  she  was.  Lyra,  my  Lyra, 
false!  she  is  incapable  of  it!  Martin  " — with  a  wild  appeal  in 
his  voice — "  you  know  her — do  you  think  that  Lyra,  my  wife, 
could  have  acted  as  he  says  she  has  done?" 

Martin  Fanshawe  was  silent  for  a  moment;  then  he  said, 
solemnly: 

"  No!  No,  Dane!  I  think  that  poor  fellow  who  has  just 
gone  to  the  Judgment  seat  told  the  truth  as  far  as  he  knew  it; 
but  I  feel  convinced  that  there  must  be  something  behind  it 
all,  that  we  are  not  in  possession  of  all  the  facts.  I  feel  with 
you,  that  Lyra  is  incapable,  simply  incapable  of  such — such 
deceit  as  this  poor  fellow's  story  implied.  Come  home  now, 
Dane."  And  he  led  him  away. 

"  Don't— don't  tell  the  women!"  Dane  groaned,  as  they 
entered  the  house.  "  I  couldn't  bear  to  have  them  speak  to 
me — yet,  though  they  and  all  the  world  will  hear  it  presently. 
Not  but  that  it's  true,  mind!"  he  added,  glaring  fiercely  at 
Martin. 

"  There's — there's  some  explanation  awaiting  us.  I  am 
convinced  of  that.  The  first  thing  we  have  to  do  is  to  find 
her." 

"  Yes,"  said  Dane,  with  a  groan;  "  and  him  " — he  added, 
between  his  clinched  teeth;  "  let  me  go  at  once — but  where?" 

"  Back  to  Highfield,  first,"  said  Martin,  quietly.  "  She 
may  have  sent  some  message,  and  it  may  be  awaiting  you 
now."  Dane  shook  his  head  despondently.  "  Give  me  five 
minutes,  and  I  will  be  ready  to  go  with  you,"  continued  Mar- 
tin. 

"  I  can't  take  you  from  home,"  said  Dane,  wistfully. 

Martin  Fanshawe  smiled  gravely  as  he  left  the  room. 

"  Dosie  is  used  to  my  leaving  her  at  the  call  of  any  one  who 
needs  me;  and  you  have  a  greater  claim  than  any  one,  Dane." 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  311 

The  two  men  drove  back  to  Highfield.  Dane  had  resigned 
the  reins  to  Martin. 

**  You  take  them,"  he  said.     "  My — my  hands  shake  so." 

As  they  came  in  sight  of  the  house  he  looked  up  at  the  win- 
dow of  Lyra's  room  and  sighed  heavily,  and  turned  his  head 
away. 

"  I  shall  never  see  her  again!"  he  groaned. 

"  I  think  you  will,"  responded  Martin,  in  a  quiet  tone  of 
conviction.  "  Wait  till  we  hear  the  whole  truth.  I  can  not 
believe  her  guilty. " 

"Guilty?  No!"  said  Dane.  "But  that  devil  may  havo 
got  her  in  his  power." 

Martin  insisted  upon  his  taking  some  breakfast,  though  ik 
were  only  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  suce  of  bread,  and  then  the 
two  men  went  down  to  the  inn.  Dane  took  a  heavy  riding- 
whip  from  the  stand  as  they  crossed  the  hall,  but  Martin  drew 
it  from  his  hand. 

"  No,"  he  said;  "  the  law  is  stronger  to  punish  than  the 
individual.  Leave  him  to  the  law,  Dane!" 

"You  had  better  let  me  go  alone,  for  [  shall  kill  him," 
Dane  said,  grimly. 

They  went  to  the  inn,  and  Martin  Fanshawe,  gently  putting 
Dane  back,  inquired  of  the  obsequious  landlord  for  Mr.  Chan- 
dos  Armitage. 

"  Mr.  Armitage  have  gone,  sir,"  he  said,  looking  from  one 
to  the  other.  "A  telegram  came  for  him  quite  early  this 
morning — a  few  minutes  after  eight — and  Mr.  Armitago 
started  directly.  He's  gone  by  the  first  train,  my  lord. " 

Dane  turned  away  and  ground  his  teeth. 

"  Did  he  say  where  he  was  going?"  asked  Martin. 

"  No,  sir.  He  was  in  such  a  hurry  that  he  didn't  even  pay 
his  bill.  Not  that  that  matters,  for  I  knew  as  he  was  Lord 
Dane's  cousin.  He  seemed  upset  like,  and  went  off  all  in  a 
flurry.  I  expect  there  was  some  bad  news  ill  that  there  tele- 
gram, sir." 

Martin  took  Dane's  arm,  and  they  went  rapidly  to  the  post- 

ofiice. 

"  Is  there  any  letter  or  telegram  for  Lord  Dane?"  Martin 
inquired  of  the  girl  at  the  counter. 

*<  Yes,  sir;  here  are  the  letters,"  she  said,  handing  them  tx 

him. 

Dane  examined  them  with  feverish  eagerness,  but  there  was 

none  from  Lyra.   . 

"  Tkere  was  a  telegram,  but  you've  had  that,  I  suppose,  mj 
lord.  J  sent  it  the  very  moment  it  came,  just  after  eight. 


313  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

"  No,"  said  Dane. 

She  flushed,  and  looked  alarmed  at  his  white,  haggard  face. 

"  I  sent  it  directly,"  she  murmured.  "  Johnny,  didn't  you 
take  the  telegram  to  Highfield?"  she  asked  of  a  lad  who  came 
in  at  the  moment. 

"  Naw,"  he  said,  stolidly.  "  I  met  the  gentleman  in  the 
village,  just  outside  the  inn,  and  he.  looked  at  it,  and  said  it 
was  for  him,  an'  he  took  it,  he  did." 

Dane  breathed  hard.     Martin  pressed  his  arm  warningly. 

"  Just  repeat  the  telegram,"  he  said;  "  Lord  Dane  has  not 
Been  it  yet;  there  has  been  some  mistake." 

The  girl  wrote  out  the  telegram,  and  Dane  almost  snatched 
it  from  her,  and  drew  Martin  outside. 

"  It  is  from  her,"  he  said.     "  Look!" 

Martin  took  out  his  watch. 

"  There  is  no  train  for  two  hours,"  he  said.  "  You  know 
the  place  where  she  has  gone?" 

"Know  it!  Yes,  yes!"  said  Dane.  "  I  ought  to  have 
known  that  she  would  go  there.  Thank  God !  But  this  vil- 
lain, he  has  got  the  start  of  me.  He  will  frighten  her  into  ac- 
companying him — will  carry  her  off." 

Martin  shook  his  head. 

"  I  think  not,"  he  said,  quietly.  "He  is  a  clever  scoun- 
drel, and  up  to  every  dodge.  This  interception  of  the  tele- 
gram was  a  cunning  stroke;  but  Lyra  is  not  the  woman  to  be 
driven  into  going  with  him.  You  see,  she  sends  for  you.  You 
must  wire  back  at  once." 

Dane  wrote  the  answering  message,  his  hand  steady  enough 
now. 

"Am  coming.     Fear  nothing.  DANE." 

"  Can't  I  set  the  police  on  that  scoundrel's  track?"  Dane 
asked  Martin. 

But  Martin  Fanshawe  shook  his  head. 

"  Not  yet,"  he  said.  "Let  us  wait  until  we  get  to  Lyra 
and  hear  the  whole  truth.  We  must  be  patient  and  wary. 
Remember  that  we  have  to  do  with  a  villain  who  is  astute  and 
full  of  cunning.  Where  is  St.  Aubyn?  He  might  help  us." 

"  God  knows,"  said  Dane.  "  Chandos  said  that  he  had 
seen  him  go  off  by  the  train,  and  hinted  that  he  had  gone  with 
her." 

"  Ah!  if  he  only  had  done  so.  But  I  am  afraid  that  suppo- 
sition is  only  too  good  to  be  true,"  said  Martin  Fanshawe. 

"But  no  matter.      If  St.  Aubyn  should  coaae  back,  we 


"  ONCE    IK    A    LIFE.  313 

could  employ  him  in  tracking  Chandos.     We  must  keep  tha 
police  out  of  this  as  long  as  possible— for  good,  if  we  can. " 
Dane  looked  at  him  in  agony. 

'Yes,  yes!  Why— why  didn't  she  tell  me?  Why  didn't 
she  confide  in  me?  My  God,  Martin,  I  can  not,  I  dare  not 
doubt  her  or  I  shall  go  mad;  but  if  she  was  in  ignorance  that 
her  marriage  was  a  mock  one,  she  must  have  thought  she  was 
committing  bigamy,  and— and  if  she  knew  it  was  false,  why 
did  she  not  tell  me?" 

"  I  can't  answer,"  said  Martin,  gravely;  "  but,"  he  said, 
firmly,  "  I  will  answer  for  Lyra's  truth  and  honor." 

Thus  they  talked,  Dane  one  moment  half  mad  with  doubt, 
the  next  casting  the  doubt  from  him  fiercely,  until  the  train 
started. 

At  the  station  Martin  inquired  of  the  station-master  if  a 
man  answering  to  Chandos's  description  had  traveled  by  the 
early  train. 

"  Oh!  yes,  sir.     Went  off  by  the  8:38,"  was  the  reply. 
Now,  for  a  wonder,  Martin  and  Dane  had  done  the  Honora- 
ble Mr.  Chandos  an  injustice.     His  interception  of  the  tele- 
gram had  been  quite  innocent.     He  thought  it  was  intended 
for  him. 

That  Lyra  should  send  to  him  to  come  to  her  had  surprised 
and  startled  him,  but  it  never  occurred  to  him  that  the  tele- 
gram was  intended  for  Dane. 

"  Why  should  she  wire  to  him — Chandos?"  he  asked  him- 
self. "  And  why  had  she  gone  to  the  Mill  Cottage?  Had  she 
and  St.  Aubyn  quarreled  already,  or — had  she  already  been 
smitten  by  remorse  and  fled  from  him,  as  she  had  fled  from 
Dane?" 

He  thought  that  the  latter  supposition  was  the  more  likely 
of  the  two.  Yes,  that  was  it.  She  had  suddenly  realized 
what  she  was  doing,  and  had  sent  St.  Aubyn  about  his  busi- 
ness, and  taken  refuge  in  her  old  home. 

But  why  had  she  sent  for  him?  Now,  Mr.  Chandos  was  as 
vain  as  a  peacock,  and  he  actually  permitted  himself  to  labor 
under  the  delusion  that  Lyra  wanted  him. 

"  After  all,  she  thinks  I'm  her  husband,"  he  said  to  him- 
self; "  and  having  no  one  else  to  whom  she  can  turn,  she  nat- 
urally seeks  my  protection." 

But  should  he  go?  As  he  asked  himself  the  question,  he  re- 
membered the  last  hour  he  had  spent  at  the  cottage,  and  Grif- 
fith's furious  pursuit,  and  suddenly  he  decided  that  he  cer- 
tainly would  not  go,  but  after  some  consideration  he  changed 
his  mind.  After  all,  it  w*s  extremely  improbable  that  the 


314  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

man  should  be  still  at  the  cottage — next  door  to  impossible,  m 
fact. 

He  would  chance  it  and  go.  He  must  persuade  Lyra  to  leave 
England  and  hide  herself.  Perhaps  he  could  induce  her  to  go 
with  him.  The  thought  brought  an  evil  smile  to  his  face, 
which  rose  again  and  again  during  the  course  of  the  long  jour- 
ney. He  had  always  hated  Dane.  What  a  delicious  stroke  of 
malice  it  would  be  if  he  could  persuade  Lyra  to  run  away  with 
him,  Chandos! 

By  the  foregoing  it  will  be  seen  that  Mr.  Chandos's  drinking 
habits  had  somewhat  dulled  the  acuteness  of  his  brain.  If  he 
had  not  been  sodden  by  drink  and  morbid  vanity  he  would  not 
have  misread  her  so  monstrously,  or  have  smiled  so  compla- 
cently as  he  lay  at  full  length  in  the  railway  carriage  and 
smoked  his  delicately  scented  cigarette. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

LYEA  was  worn  out,  and  suffered  Mary  to  undress  her  and 
put  her  to  bed  without  a  protest.  Now  that  she  was  under 
the  old  roof,  a  strange  feeling  of  peace  and  security  fell  upon 
her  wounded  spirit. 

"If  she  could  only  fall  asleep  never  to  wake  again!"  she 
thought,  with  a  sigh,  as  she  closed  her  burning  eyes. 

Griffith  asked  no  questions  of  either  St.  Aubyn  or  Mary,  but 
after  the  bedroom  door  was  closed  upon  Lyra  he  had  gone 
down  to  the  garden  and  resumed  his  work  in  grim  and  dogged 
silence. 

That  something  had  happened — some  great  trouble  had  be- 
fallen her — he  guessed,  but  he  was  almost  indifferent  as  to  its 
nature.  It  was  enough  for  him  that  "  his  little  girl  "  had 
come  back  to  him,  and  as  he  worked,  he  told  himself  that  she 
should  never  be  withdrawn  from  his  care  again. 

St.  Aubyn,  afraid  to  utter  a  word  lest  it  might  compromise 
Lyra,  maintained  a  profound  silence  respecting  her.  It  wag 
evident  that  Griffith  regarded  him  as  a  friend,  for  when  St. 
Aubyn  addressed  a  few  words  to  him  on  ordinary  topics,  Grif- 
fith answered  him  civilly. 

"  I  suppose  I  can't  get  a  room  nearer  than  Barnstaple?"  he 
asked.  "  I  should  like  to  remain  " — he  was  going  to  say, 
"  near  Lady  Armitage,"  but  checked  himself — "  for  a  day  or 
two." 

"  No,"  said  Griffith.     "  You  can  get  a  room  there." 

St.  Aubyn  said  no  irgre.  ^"n,  *>«t  waited  till  Mary  came 
down. 


03TCE    IK    A    LIFE.  315 

"  How  is  Laxly  Armitage?"  he  asked.  "  ShaU  I  get  a  doo 
tor?  Is  there  anything  I  can  do?" 

''  No,  sir/'  said  Mary,  after  a  moment's  thought.  "  I  don't 
think  she's  ill — not  ill  in  a  way  that  a  doctor  could  do  any 
good.  She's  in  trouble,  I  can  see.  But  a  doctor  couldn't 
mend  that,  could  he,  sir?  She's  asleep  now,  bless  her!" 

St.  Aubyn  shook  his  head. 

"  I  trust  that  her  trouble  will  soon  be  over,"  he  said. 

He  dared  not  say  that  he  had  wired  for  her  husband,  lest 
Dane  should  not  come.  He  was  so  completely  hi  the  dark  that 
he  was  afraid  to  move  in  any  direction. 

"  Please  tell  Lady  Armitage  that  I  am  going  to  remain 
here,  near  her,  until — well,  for  the  present,"  he  said,  "and 
that  I  will  see  her  whenever  she  wishes  to  see  me." 

Then  he  went  off  to  Barnstaple  and  looked  up  the  time- 
table, and  found  that  if  Dane  caught  either  of  the  two  morn- 
ing trains  he  would  reach  the  cottage  that  night. 

With  a  sigh  of  relief,  he  went  into  the  town,  engaged  a 
room  at  the  hotel,  and  set  himself  to  the  hard  task  of  waiting. 

The  day  passed. 

Toward  evening  Lyra  awoke.  For  the  first  few  moments 
she  thought  that  she  was  still  in  her  own  room  at  Highfield; 
then,  as  she  saw  Mary,  she  remembered,  and  with  a  sigh 
closed  her  eyes  again.  She  felt  incapable  of  thought,  much 
less  of  action,  and  she  lay  quite  still  and  almost  apathetic  for 
some  time. 

But  after  awhile  the  bitterness  of  her  trouble  broke  over  her 
like  a  cold  wave,  and  she  found  it  impossible  to  be  still  any 
longer. 

*VI  must  get  up,"  she  said  to  Mary.  "  If— if  I  lie  here 
thinking,  thinking,  I  shall  go  mad!" 

At  first  Mary  tried  to  dissuade  her,  but  when  she  saw  that 
all  her  coaxing  and  arguments  only  distressed  and  harassed 
Lyra,  she  wisely  desisted,  and  helped  her  to  dress. 

"  It's  a  lovely  night,  my  lady,  she  said,  drawing  aside  the 
curtain.  The  rain  had  cleared,  and  the  moon,  yellow  as  gold, 
shone  through  a  faint  warm  mist;  the  tide  was  coming  in 
slowly,  and  rippled  in  silver  bars  over  the  sand.  As  Lyra 
looked  out  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  had  never  left  the  cottage, 
as  if  her  life,  since  the  day  her  father  died,  were  but  a  dream. 

She  turned  from  the  window  and  sighed.  If  she  could 
only  remain  here  for  the  rest  of  her  life?  Would  they  let 
her?  If  only  they  would  let  her  rest  in  peace!  \Vhen  she 
went  down-stairs  the  familiar  parlor  smote  her  with  a  pain  so 
keen  that  she  could  not  endure  to  sit  in  the  room. 


316  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

between  her  and  Geoffrey  Barle  seemed  reacting  itself  before 
her  eyes. 

"  I  will  go  into  the  garden,  Mary,"  she  said;  and  she  went 
out  and  sat  in  the  little  arbor,  her  head  leaning  against  the 
woodwork,  her  eyes  closed.  All  was  still,  save  for  the  lowing 
of  the  cows  which  Griffith  was  littering  for  the  night  in  the 
rough  stable  he  had  built  behind  the  cottage,  and  the  soft 
shriek  of  the  gulls,  as  they  hovered  over  the  incoming  tide. 

Every  now  and  then  Mary  came  to  the  door — as  she  used  to 
do  in  the  old  time — but  Lyra  seemed  to  be  resting  so  peace- 
fully that  Mary  judged  it  best  not  to  disturb  her,  and  returned 
to  the  house. 

But  Lyra,  though  her  eyes  were  closed,  was  not  asleep.  She 
was  thinking  of  Dane — of  Dane,  whose  heart  she  had  oroken 
—of  Dane,  whom  she  would  never  see  again! 

Suddenly  she  heard  a  sound  like  that  of  stealthy  footsteps, 
and  thinking  it  was  Griffith,  she  raised  her  head  and  opened 
her  eyes.  What  should  she  tell  him  when  he  asked  her  why 
she  had  left  her  husband  and  come  back  to  the  cottage? 

The  footsteps  came  nearer,  and  she  heard  her  name  spoken. 
With  a  faint  cry  she  attempted  to  rise,  but  Chandos  pushed 
himself  through  a  gap  in  the  hedge  behind  her  and  laid  his 
hand  on  her  arm. 

"  Hush!"  he  whispered,  warningly.  "  Don't  make  a  noise; 
don't  be  frightened.  I've  come,  Lyra." 

She  eyed  him  with  wild  horror  and  dread  for  a  moment,  her 
hand  pressed  to  her  bosom;  then  the  color  crept  into  her  face, 
and  an  expression  of  contempt  and  defiance  into  her  eyes. 

"  You!"  she  said.  "  Yes,  I  might  have  known  that  you 
would  break  your  word;  I  might  have  known  that  I  could  not 
trust  a  liar  and  a  coward!" 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  he  demanded.  "  You  sent  forme." 

Her  eyes  flashed  scorn  on  him. 

"  I — sent  for  you  !" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  doggedly;  "you  telegraphed."  He 
hunted  for  the  telegram,  but  could  not  find  it.  "  You  sent 
for  me  this  morning.  I  left  the  telegram  at  the  inn,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"It  is  a  lie!"  she  said.  "You  promised —  But  I  might 
have  known.  Why  have  you  come?  Is  it  because  you  thought 
I  should  be  alone  and  helpless?" 

"  Nonsense!"  he  said,  with  a  snarl.  "  You  know  you  sent 
for  me.  What  is  the  use  of  this  play-acting?  You  don't  do 
it  »t  all  well,  Lyra,  Do  you  think  I've  come  all  this  way  for 


OffCE    IN    A    LIFE.  *  317 

the  pleasure  of  wrangling  with  you?    Where  is  St.  Aubyn?" 
he  asked,  watching  her  keenly. 

She  made  no  reply.  She  was  weak  and  ill,  and  the  fictitious 
strength  lent  her  by  her  indignation  at  his  presence  was  fast 
waning. 

"  Where  is  he?"  he  repeated.  "  I  suppose  you've  quar- 
reled, or  thought  better  of  it  and  parted  from  him,  eh?  Well, 
perhaps  you  were  right.  After  all,  I'm  your  proper  and  legal 
protector.  You  can't  go  back  to  Dane;  that's  out  of  the 
question.  You  can't  stay  here.  Why,  this  is  one  of  the  first 
places  he  would  think  of  trying.  You  might  have  thought  of 
that.  If  you  still  want  to  avoid  a  scandal,  and  I  suppose  you 
do,  you  must  leave  here  at  once — at  once!  Do  you  under- 
stand?" 

She  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  him,  and  clutched  the  arm  of  the 
seat;  but  she  said  nothing;  did  not  call  for  help.  His  presence 
filled  her  with  loathing,  but  not  with  fear. 

He  bit  his  nails  and  eyed  her  sideways,  watching  the  effect 
of  his  words. 

"  But,  of  course,  you've  thought  all  this  out,  or  you 
wouldn't  have  sent  for  me.  And,  after  all,  it's  the  proper 
thing.  I  dare  say  you  prefer  St.  Aubyn,"  he  sneered  as  the 
hot  blood  rushed  into  her  face;  "  there's  no  accounting  for 
taste;  but  you  were  quite  right  to  throw  him  over.  After  all, 
I'm  your  husband." 

Her  lips  parted  and  her  breath  came  in  quick,  sharp  pants. 

"  The  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  come  with  me.  \V  e  will 
go  abroad,  and  keep  quiet  until  the  fuss  has  blown  over.  It 
won't  take  very  long.  Society  is  accustomed  to  this  kind  of 
thing."  The  ugly  sneer  curved  his  thin  lips  again.  "For 
his  own  sake,  if  not  for  yours,  Dane  will  hush  up  the  affair. 
He  won't  care  to  move.  Yes;  you've  taken  the  proper  course." 

He  pulled  out  his  watch. 

"There's  a  London  train  leaves  Barnstaple  at  31:25.  I'll 
wait  for  you  at  the  station  and  have  the  tickets  ready." 

She  rose  slowly,  with  the  dignity  of  an  outraged  woman  elo- 
quent in  her  eyes,  her  attitude. 

"Go!"  she  said,  raising  her  hand  and  pointing  to  the  gate. 
"  Utter  another  word  and—" 

She  had  raised  her  voice  unconsciously.  Chandos  glared 
round  apprehensively,  then  sprung  forward  and  seized  her 
arm. 

"  No  shouting,"  he  snarled.  "  You  do  as  I  tell  you,  or  it 
will  be  bad  for  you.  You  are  in  my  power.  I've  got  you, 
body  and  soul!" 


318  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

Lyra  shook  Chandos  Armitage  off,  with  a  cry  of  mingled 
loathing  and  dread. 

As  if  in  answer  to  her  cry,  a  rough  voice  shouted  her  name. 
Mr.  Chandos  started,  with  an  oath,  and  rushed  toward  the 
gate.  He  had  recognized  Griffith's  voice. 

As  he  reached  the  gate,  Griffith  came  down  the  path  from  ; 
the  cottage.     At  sight  of  Chandos  he  uttered  a  cry  like  that  of  I 
a  wolf-hound  at  the  moment  he  sights  his  prey,  and  dashed  \ 
after  him.     Chandos  swung  the  gate  to  and  ran  along  the 
rough  road;  Griffith's  appearance  had  filled  him  with  terror, 
and  for  a  moment  almost  deprived  him  of  his  senses. 

He  looked  round  wildly,  and  his  eye  caught  sight  of  the  boat 
dancing  on  the  edge  of  the  river.  He  made  for  it  with  the 
speed  of  despair,  gained  it,  and  leaping  in,  pushed  it  off  into 
the  tide. 

He  had  scarcely  done  so  than  Griffith  reached  the  spot 
where  the  boat  had  been. 

More  like  a  wild  animal  than  a  man,  he  stood  on  the  brink, 
his  gnarled  face  distorted  with  rage,  his  uplifted  hands  clinch- 
ing and  unclinching. 

Chandos  sat  down,  seized  the  oars,  and  began  to  pull  furi- 
ously. The  tide  helped  him,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  was 
well  out  in  the  river,  and,  as  he  thought,  out  of  reach  of  his 
pursuer.  If  he  could  only  gain  the  opposite  shore  he  was  safe. 
There  was  something  so  grotesque  in  the  wildly  gesticulating 
figure  of  Griffith,  helpless  and  powerless  on  the  edge  of  the 
river,  that  Mr.  Chandos  could  not,  even  in  the  midst  of  his 
fears,  help  smiling.  His  smile  grew  to  a  laugh,  which  reached 
Griffith. 

But  before  the  laugh  had  died  away,  the  laugher  was  jerked 
forward,  and  the  oars  were  forced  from  his  hands,  and  the 
boat  was  stopped. 

It  had  stranded  on  the  very  sand-bank  which  had  caught 
Lyra  the  day  Dane  had  swum  out  to  her. 

Chandos  scrambled  to  his  feet,  and  seizing  one  of  the  oars, 
attempted  to  push  the  boat  joff ;  but  the  harder  he  pushed, 
the  more  frantic  his  efforts,  the  harder  it  seemed  to  stick. 
Sometimes  he  succeeded  in  getting  the  bow  clear,  but  then  the 
boat  floated  round,  and  the  stern  stuck.  Griffith  watched  him 
for  a  moment,  still  gesticulating  and  waving  his  arms;  then 
he  tore  off  his  coat  and  boots,  and  running  to  a  point  below 
the  sand-bank,  plunged  into  the  stream. 

Chandos  saw  this  movement,  and  became  still  more  frantic 
in  his  endeavors  to  float  the  boat,  but  the  tide  and  his  mis- 
guided efforts  had  lodged  it  still  more  firmly  in  the  mud. 


ONCE    IK    A    LIFE.  319 

Pushing  and  struggling  with  the  oar,  he  watched  his  pursuer 
swimming  rapidly— for  the  tide  was  helping  Griffith  at  every 
inch— toward  him.  White  to  the  lips,  Mr.  Chandos  gnashed 
his  teeth,  and  raising  the  oar  above  his  head,  waited.  Griffith 
soon  reached  the  bank.  The  moon  shone  on  his  gnarled  face, 
his  fierce,  blood-shot  eyes. 

"  Keep  off!"  shouted  Chandos,  threateningly.  "  Keep  off 
or  I'll  brain  you!" 

A  hoarse  laugh  answered  him  as  Griffith  swam  within  a 
couple  of  feet  of  the  boat. 

Chandos  struck  wildly  and  savagely  at  the  distorted  face; 
but  with  a  dexterous  dive  Griffith  avoided  the  blow,  and  before 
Chandos  could  raise  the  oar,  was  on  his  feet  and  in  the  boat. 

Chandos  stumbled  into  the  bow  and  raised  the  oar  to  strike 
at  him,  but  with  a  guttural  cry  Griffith  seized  it,  flung  it  in 
the  bottom  of  the  boat,  and  sprung  like  a  tiger  at  Chandos's 
throat.  Chaudos  went  down  like  a  nine-pin,  and  Griffith,  with 
one  knee  pressing  upon  the  prostrate  man's  chest,  dashed  the 
water  from  his  own  hair  and  face,  and  glared  down  up  him. 

"Let  me  go!"  gasped  Chandos.  "Let  me  go!  Do  you 
mean  to  murder  me?  Let  me  go  and  I'll — I'll  pay  you  well." 

Griffith  raised  him  a  little  and  dashed  his  head  down  upon 
the  thwart. 

"  You'll — you'll  pay  me!"  he  growled. 

Then,  still  holding  him  in  a  grip  like  a  rise,  he  looked 
round  as  if  undecided  what  to  do  with  him. 

After  a  moment — a  moment  in  which  the  Honorable  Chan- 
dos lived,  say,  a  thousand  years — Griffith  lifted  him  bodily  and 
flung  him  over  the  boat's  edge  on  to  the  sand-bank. 

Then,  without  a  word,  he  pushed  the  boat  off,  seated  him- 
self, rested  on  his  oars,  and  smiled — an  awful  smile — at  his 
prey. 

Chandos  lay  panting  for  awhile;  then,  when  he  had  recov- 
ered his  breath,  he  sat  up  and  looked  round  affrightedly.  It 
occurred  to  him  that  his  adversary  let  him  off  very  lightly, 
and  he  began  to  congratulate  himself. 

He  looked  at  Griffith  sitting  regarding  him  with  that  pecul- 
iar smile,  and  something  in  the  fixed  and  glowing  eyes  and 
the  smile  itself  struck  a  chill  into  Chandos's  heart  and  made 
him  shudder,  though  why  he  knew  not. 

Then  he  felt  something  cold  touch  his  feet,  and,  Ic 
down,  understood.     It  was  the  water  creeping  rapidly  arounc 

With  a  cry,  a  shriek,  he  sprung  up  and  extended  his  clasped 


320  ONCE    IN    A    1*U  .  . 

hands  toward  those  mocking  eyes  and  that  slow,  vindictive 
smile. 

"  Save  me!"  he  shouted.     "  Save  me!    Take  me  off — " 

Griffith  moved  the  boat  a  few  yards  further  away,  and  went 
on  smiling. 

"  Take  me  off,  Griffith!"  yelled  Chandos,  hopping  about  as 
if  he  were  trying  to  keep  from  the  insidiously  approaching 
water.  "  Save  me!  You  won't  let  me  drown!  It's  murder! 
murder,  do  you  hear?" 

Not  for  an  instant  did  the  fierce  eyes  remove  themselves  or 
the  smile  relax.  Chandos  raised  his  voice  and  shouted,  but 
the  sea-gulls  were  calling,  shrieking  all  over  the  river,  and  as 
if  they  were  not  sufficient  to  drown  his  victim's  voice,  Griffith 
began  to  shout  and  yell  a  Devonshire  chorus  loud  and  hoarse 
enough  to  smother  the  wildest  shriek. 

Chandos  looked  from  side  to  side.  Not  a  soul  was  on  the 
river  but  themselves,  the  mist,  semi-opaque  in  the  moonlight, 
hid  the  banks  on  either  side  from  view.  He  was  alone  and 
helplessly  at  the  mercy  of  Griffith.  The  man  would  leave 
him  there  till  the  tide  rose  above  the  sand-bank  and  drowned 
him.  It  is  needless  to  say  Chandos  could  not  swim.  He 
should  die  in  the  prune,  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  life,  die  like 
a  dog  within  sound,  almost  within  sight,  of  human  aid. 

The  cold  sweat  broke  out  upon  his  face,  his  lips  grew  hot 
and  tremulous,  his  eyes  burned  in  their  sockets,  and  he  fell  to 
trembling  as  if  with  ague. 

He  would  have  flung  himself  down  upon  the  sand,  but  the 
water  had  already  covered  it  and  was  creeping  above  his 
ankles. 

"  Griffith,"  he  cried,  hoarsely,  "  take  me  off  I  Save  me, 
and — and  Fll  give  you  a  hundred  pounds — two!  Think — 
think — ah!" — he  shrieked  as  he  felt  the  cold  water  on  his  legs 
above  his  boots — "  think  what  you  could  do  with  two  hundred 
pounds!  You'd — you'd  be  a  rich  man!" 

Griffith  put  the  boat  a  few  yards  nearer  and  laughed  at  him. 

Chandos  took  to  whining. 

"  Griffith,  I — I  always  liked  you!  I — I  always  admired  you! 
So — firm  and  determined.  Ah,  yah!" — he  danced  and  hopped 
grotesquely  in  his  agony,  for  the  tide  had  reached  his  knees — 
"  you're — you're  not  the  sort  of  man  to  leave  a  fellow-creat- 
ure to  his  de-death!"  His  teeth  chattered,  his  eyes  bulged 
out.  "  You're  too  brave  for  that!" 

Griffith  put  his  boat  still  nearer,  and  Chandos,  with  a  gur- 
gling cry,  began  to  wade  quickly  to  it;  but  as  he  did  so  Griffith 
rowed  out  of  his  reach  ut^J:  ..in!  .auled. 


OKCE    Lff    A    LITE.  331 

A  cry  of  despair  and  rage  rose  from  Chandos's  parched  lips. 
'You— you  devil!"  lie  shouted;  "you  mean  to  murder 
me!  What — what  harm  did  I  ever  do  to  you?  Help!  help!" 
His  voice  was  hoarser  than  the  gulls'  now,  and  carried  no  dis- 
tance. "  If  it's  Lyra  you're  thinking  of,  you're  only  ruining 
her  by  killing  me!  Do  you  hear?" 

Griffith  put  the  boat  within  hearing  distance. 

"  Say  that  again!"  he  growled. 

"  I  do — T  do  say  it,  on  my  oath!  You'll  never  know  the 
truth  of  this  business  if — if  you  leave  me  to  die  here  like  a 
rat!" 

Griffith  growled. 

"The  truth?"  he  snarled.  "  You  couldn't  tell  it  if  you 
tried!  Why  shouldn't  you  die,  you  rat?  She  hates  you;  so 
do  I — drown!" 

Chandos  flung  his  arms  above  his  head  and  howled  like  a 
wolf.  His  face — white  and  contorted,  with  the  great  drops  of 
sweat  blotching  it,  with  the  distended  eyes — was  a  hideous 
sight  under  the  calm,  placid  moonlight;  but  it  seemed  only 
to  amuse  Griffith. 

Chandos  looked  round  with  a  shudder.  The  water  was 
nearly  breast-high;  he  had  a  difficulty  in  keeping  his  feet  firm 
on  the  sand. 

"  I'll  tell  you  the  truth!"  he  cried,  hoarsely.  "  As  I'm  a 
dying  man  "—Griffith  chuckled—"  I'll— I'll  tell  you  the 
truth!  You  will  take  me  off  then— you'll  save  me  if  I  swear  " 
— he  swore  an  awful  oath — "  that  it's  the  truth— the  wlwk 
truth?" 

As  he  half  yelled,  half  whined  the  appeal,  Griffith's  quick 
ear  caught  a  sound  on  the  river  above  them.  He  put  the  boat 
still  nearer,  but  out  of  the  reach  of  Chandos's  hands. 

"  Be  quick,  then!"  he  snarled.  "  Tell  me  a  lie,  as  I  know 
to  be  a  lie,  and  I'll  knock  you  into  the  water!  Go  onl" 

St.  Aubvn  literally  hung  about  all  day.  He  could  neither 
eat  nor  rest.  He  wished  that  he  had  wired  to  Dane  to  send  an 
answer;  wondered  whether  hfe  nad,  indeed,  sent  an  answer  to 
the  cottage;  tortured  iumself,  in  fact,  as  persons  always  do  in 
periods  of  suspense,  until  the  day  closed  and  the  tune  ap- 
proaches when  he  could,  with  a  fair  show  of  reason,  go  down 
vo  the  station  to  meet  Dane. 

The  train  drew  up,  and  Dane  and  Martin  sprung  c 
St.  Aubyn  sprung  upon  them.     Dane's  white,  haggard  face 
struck  him  speechless  for  a  moment,  and  in  that  momen 


322  .      O:\CE  ix  A  LIFE. 

remembered  his  own  agony  when  he  discovered  that  his  wife 
had  left  him. 

Dane  caught  him  by  the  a*m  and  fixed  him  with  fiercely  in- 
terrogating eyes. 

"  Where  is  she?"  he  demanded,  hoarsely. 

St.  Aubyn  drew  him  aside. 

"  She  is  all  right — she  is  all  right.  Be  calm,  Dane,  i  tell 
you  she  is  all  right.'' 

Dane  leaned  against  the  station  wall  and  wiped  his  face. 

"  You — you  have  been  with  her?" 

"All  the  tune,  nearly,"  said  St.  Aubyn,  his  own  voice 
trembling.  "  I  and  an  old  servant  of  hers,  Mary,  traveled 
with  her  a  greater  part  of  the  way.  She  is  with  her  now  at 
the  cottage. ' ' 

Dane  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief. 

"  Thank  God!"  lie  murmured;  but  Ms  face  soon  fell  again. 
His  darling  was  safe  and  sound,  but  the  hideous  fact  that  sha 
had  deceived  him,  married  him  while  she  believed  herself  the 
wife  of  another  man,  still  remained. 

"  You  will  come  to  her  at  once,"  said  St.  Aubyn.  "  I've 
got  a  carriage." 

But  Dane  hesitated.     Martin  touched  his  arm. 

"  You  must  come,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

Dane  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  She  will  not  see  me,"  he  muttered,  with  an  air  of  convic- 
tion. "We  can  never" — his  voice  choked — "live  together 
again." 

St.  Aubyn  stared  at  him. 

"  What  hideous  mystery  is  this?"  he  exclaimed. 

Dane  turned  his  head  aside. 

"  Tell  him,"  he  said  to  Martin,  and  he  walked  away. 

Martin,  hi  as  few  words  as  possible,  gave  the  gist  of  Eaw- 
don's  dying  confession,  and  St.  Aubyn  listened  with  silent 
horror  until  Martin  had  finished,  then  he  turned  upon  him. 

"  That's  not  all!"  he  exclaimed;  "  there  is  something  more 
to  be  told.  What?  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  he  " — lie 
glanced  at  Dane — "  who  loves  her  and  knows  her,  can  believe 
her  guilty?  There  :!s  some  devilish  juggling  still  to  be  discov- 
ered. Go  to  her?  Of  course  he  must  go  to  her." 

He  hailed  the  carriage  and  seized  Dane's  arm. 

"  Get  in,"  he  said,  firmly. 

Dane,  almost  prostrated  by  grief  and  doubt  and  despair, 
obeyed  like  a  child  or  sick  man,  and  the  carriage  drove  off. 
He  sunk  back  in  his  corner,  speechless,  and  the  two  other  men 
talked  in  hushed  whispers,  as  if  in  the  presence  of  death.  As 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  323 

they  drove  along  by  the  water's  edge,  St.  Aubyn  told  Martin 
of  the  meeting  with  Lyra,  and  her  finding  safe  refuge  at  the 
cottage,  and  in  a  whisper  that  could  not  reach  Dane,  they 
were  working  away  at  the  puzzle,  when  suddenly  a  wild,  un- 
earthly sound  came  in  a  weird,  ghostly  fashion  through  the 
moonlit  mist.  • 

"  What  was  that?''  asked  St.  Aubyn. 

Martin  shook  his  head  and  turned  to  Dane.  He  raised  his 
head  and  listened  listlessly.  The  cry,  mingled  with  the  shriek 
of  the  gulls,  was  repeated. 

"  Is  it  the  sea-birds?"  Martin  said. 

Dane  shook  his  head  apathetically. 

"It  is  some  one  in  distress — out  there  on  the  river,"  he 
Baid,  with  perfect  indifference. 

A  wild  howl  rose,  as  if  in  confirmation  of  his  assertion. 
Martin  sprung  to  his  feet  and  stopped  the  flyman,  who  was 
driving  along  half  asleep  and  deaf  to  everything,  then  leaped 
out. 

St.  Aubyn  followed  him,  and  after  a  moment's  hesitation 
Dane  followed  also.  The  two  men  tried  to  peer  through  the 
mist,  but  it  was  like  a  thin  muslin  veil,  and  they  could  discern 
nothing;  but  their  strained  ears  again  caught  Chandos's  yell. 

"  Some  one  is  in  mortal  peril — drowning,  perhaps,"  said 
Martin,  gravely.  "  What  is  to  be  done?  Is  there  no  boat?" 

He  ran  along  the  bank,  followed  by  St.  Aubyn,  and  as  luck 
would  have  it,  they  saw  a  boat  creeping  along  shore.  An  old 
man  was  rowing  slowly  and  heavily  along,  but  he  did  not  turn 
his  head  in  response  to  their  shouts,  and  St.  Aubyn  waded  into 
the  water  and  seized  the  nose  of  the  boat. 

The  old  man  turned  round  with  natural  astonishment,  but 
shook  his  head  and  pointed  to  his  ears  when  St.  Aubyn  shouted 
and  asked  him  if  he  didn't  hear  anything. 

"  He's  deaf,"  said  Martin.     "  Get  in— quick!    You  can 

row. " 

"Yes,"  said  St.  Aubyn.  "  But  Dane  is  a  far  better  oars- 
man. Dane!"  he  shouted.  "  Come  on,  old  man!" 

Dane,  who  had  followed  them  leisurely,  got  into  the  boat  in 
the  same  listless  way,  and  took  the  oars  St.  Aubyn  thrust  into 

his  hands.  (t  T, 

"  I  don't  hear  any  cry  now,"  said  Martin,  gravely. 

afraid—" 

Then  it  rose  again.  .          0 

"  Row  hard,  Dane.    It  is  in  the  middle  of  the  river. 

poor  fellow  is  in  trouble,"  said  Martin.  a 

Dane  pulled  quickly,  but  with  no  great  enthusiasm;  b 


321  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

suddenly  lie  stopped  and  looked  in  the  direction  of  the  sand« 
bank  with  a  strange  expression. 

This  sportsman's  ears  had  recognized  Chandos's  voice. 

Without  a  word,  but  with  a  flash  of  the  eyes,  he  tore  off  his 
coat,  and  bent  to  his  work  as  if  he  were  rowing  for  the  'Var- 
sity race.  In  a  few  minutes  they  were  near  enough  to  dis- 
tinctly hear  the  voice,  the  very  words,  of  the  distracted 
wretch. 

St.  Aubyn  sprung  up. 

"  Why — why — that  is  Chandos  Armitage's  voice!"  he  cried. 

Dane  gave  two  strokes,  then  kept  the  boat  still. 

"  Hush!"  he  said,  hoarsely. 

"  Row!  row!"  implored  Martin  and  St.  Aubyn  in  a  breath. 

He  glared  at  them  fiercely,  threateningly,  and  grasping  the 
oars  with  one  hand,  held  up  the  other  warningly. 

Petrified  by  amazement,  they  were  powerless  to  act,  and 
could  only  sit  and  listen. 

It  was  Chandos's  voice,  and  they  could  hear  every  word. 

"  It's  the  truth — I  swear,  I  swear  it!"  he  was  crying, 
hoarsely.  "  She  thought  it  was  a  real  marriage.  We  parted 
like  strangers  directly  afterward.  She  was  only  my  wife  in 
name.  I  swear  it.  Mary  will  tell  you — you  know  yourself — 
I  left  her  that  same  afternoon.  I  never  saw  her  again  till  she 
was  married  to  Dane.  It — it  was  only  a  bit  of  play-acting. 
She  is  not  my  wife.  I  admit  it,  I  swear  it.  She  thought  I 
was  drowned.  She  was  never  my  wife.  I'll  swear  it  before  a 
magistrate.  I  confess  it  all,  all,  do  you  hear?  Take  me  off, 
•ave  me — oh,  God,  I'm  drowning!" 

Conflicting  emotions  expressed  themselves  like  cloud-shad- 
ows on  Dane's  face.  His  eyes  flashed  and  glittered  in  the 
moonlight. 

"  You — you  heard?"  he  gasped,  in  a  low,  dry  voice. 

"  Yes,  yes!"  cried  Martin.  "  How  more.  Give  me  the 
oars,  he's  drowning!" 

Dane  seemed  still  lost  to  the  situation  for  a  moment,  then 
he  pulled  hard.  Suddenly  they  all  felt  a  shock  and  were 
thrown  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  They  had  run  into  some- 
thing. Dane  was  the  first  to  regain  his  feet.  One  oar  had 
slipped  from  the  rowlock,  but  he  seized  the  other,  and,  stand- 
ing on  the  thwart,  looked  round. 

There,  beside  them,  was  Griffith's  boat,  and  Griffith,  sitting 
firm  as  a  rock,  and  resting  on  his  oars  as  if  nothing  were  the 
matter.  Dane  recognized  him  after  a  moment. 

"  Griffith!"  he  cried. 

Griffith  looked  at  him  without  a  word. 


(sJSCE    TK    A    LIFE.  325 

"  Where  is — where  is  the  man?"  shouted  Martin. 

Griffith  looked  round  the  expanse  of  water  and  smiled. 
There  was  no  sign  of  the  wretch  who  a  moment  before  had 
been  whining  out  his  confession. 

"  Good  God!  where  is  he?"  exclaimed  St.  Aubyn. 

"  Look  there — there!"  cried  Martin,  pointing  to  a  head  that 
had  risen  a  few  yards  down  the  stream.  "  Row,  Dane,  row! 
He  is  drowning!" 

Griffith  glanced  toward  the  head  as  if  it  were  absolutely  no 
concern  of  his,  and  Dane  sat  for  a  moment  motionless,  then  he 
put  the  boat's  nose  for  the  sinking  man  and  rowed. 

The  head  disappeared,  then  came  up  again  in  a  ghostly 
fashion,  but  some  distance  from  the  boat. 

"  He  will  be  drowned!    We  shall  be  too  late!"  said  Martin. 

Dane  signed  to  St.  Aubyn  to  take  the  oars,  and  stepping  on 
the  gunwale  of  the  boat,  dived  into  the  water,  saying,  as  he 
did  so,  as  calmly  as  if  he  were  out  for  a  swim: 

"  Keep  the  boat  down  stream!" 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

DANE  swam  like  a  fish,  as  the  reader  knows,  and  having 
learned  the  trick  of  the  Taw  current,  he  had  no  difficulty  in 
reaching  Chandos.  That  worthy  gentleman  was  still  con- 
scious and  mad  with  terror.  At  the  sight  of  Dane  he  at  once, 
as  is  the  custom  of  your  drowning  man,  made  a  frantic  clutch 
for  him.  But  this  was  not  the  first  time  Dane  had  earned  the 
Royal  Humane  Society's  medal  for  preserving  life,  and  he 
knew  what  to  expect. 

Treading  water,  he  raised  his  hand  and  caught  Mr.  Chandos 
a  smart  blow  on  the  head,  then  seized  him  by  the  arm,  and, 
keeping  at  a  safe  distance,  swam  with  him  to  the  boat.  He 
had  not  many  yards  to  go,  and  very  promptly  they  were  both 
seized  by  Martin  and  St.  Aubyn  and  lifted  aboard. 

Chandos  fell  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat;  Dane  eat  on  the 
thwart,  breathing  hard  and  wiping  the  water  from  his  face. 

Martin  bent  over  Chandos. 

"  He  is  not  dead,  thank  Heaven!"  he  said,  gravely. 

"  Oh,"  said  St.  Aubyn,  but  with  no  great  joy  in  his  voice, 
"  I  don't  see  that  there's  much  to  be  thankful  for.     Here, 
and  he  handed  his  brandy  flask  to  Martin. 

Mr.  Chandos  took  a  gulp,  sat  up  and  looked  roi  ad,  a] 

e  mel1avePmerVhe  whined.      "I  swear  that  FY« 


326  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

told  the  truth!  Don't  let  him  get  at  me!'5  and  he  clung  con* 
Yulsively  to  Martin's  legs. 

Martin,  good  and  charitable  as  he  was,  could  not  help  shak- 
ing him  off. 

"  Be  silent!"  he  said,  almost  as  sternly  as  Dane  could  have 
spoken.  "  You  have  nothing  to  fear  from  Lord  Dane.  He 
has  just  saved  your  life,  and  5  you  have  a  spark  of  gratitude 
in  you,  you  will  go  on  your  knees  and  implore  his  pardon." 

But  Mr.  Chandos  was  not  capable  of  even  a  solitary  spark 
of  that  emotion.  He  looked  under  his  lids  at  Dane,  and, 
shivering  and  shaking,  muttered,  sullenly: 

"  Saved  my  life?  He  hit  me — hit  me  when  I  was  in  the 
water  and  helpless!  I  shall  catch  my  death!" 

"  It  was  to  save  you  from  gripping  him  and  drowning  you 
both,"  said  Martin.  "  If  you  can  not  bring  yourself  to  thank 
your  preserver,  hold  your  tongue  altogether." 

Dane  rose  and  beckoned  Griffith,  who  had  kept  close  to 
them,  and  viewed  the  rescue  of  Chandos  with  strong  disgust. 
He  brought  his  boat  alongside,  and  Dane  stepped  into  it. 

"  Row  me  ashore  as  quickly  as  possible,"  he  said. 

Griffith  eyed  him  rather  suspiciously. 

"  What  for?"  he  said.  "  Are  you  going  to  worry  and 
plague  her?  If  so — " 

"No,  no,"  said  Dane,  flushing.  "  I  want  to  go  to  her  and 
tell  her — tell  her  all  that  that  devil  in  human  form  confessed. 
Be  quick,  man;  I'm  on  fire.  She  knows  I'm  coming.  I  tele- 
graphed to  her." 

"  No,  she  doesn't,"  said  Griffith,  stolidly;  and  he  took  the 
telegram  from  his  pocket. 

"  You  haven't  given  it  to  her!"  said  Dane. 

"  No,"  retorted  Griffith,  sullenly.  "  Why  should  I?  She 
wanted  quiet  and  rest.  How  did  I  know  what  you  were  com- 
ing for?  To  bring  more  trouble  upon  her,  perhaps,  to  make 
her  more  unhappy  than  she  is  already." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Dane.  "It  is  all  cleared  up  now.  Make 
haste,  Griffith.  Every  moment  I'm  away  from  her  is  an  age 
to  me." 

Griffith  rowed,  but  none  too  quickly. 

"  Why  didn't  you  let  him  drown — the  rat?"  he  growled. 
"  What  did  you  interfere  for?  It  was  no  business  of  yours." 

At  any  other  time  Dane  would  have  laughed  outright,  but 
he  was  incapable  of  a  smile  just  then. 

"  Row  on,  or  give  me  the  oars,"  he  said,  sternly;  and 
Griffith,  thus  adjured,  pulled  hard  for  the  snore. 

The  other  boat  was  pulling  up  stream  toward  Barnstapla 


ONCE    IN    A    LIFE.  337 

"  Don'u  mind  us,"  shouted  St.  Aubyn.  "  We'll  take  care 
of  him." 

"  Ugh!"  grunted  Griffith.  "  Why  don't  they  chuck  him 
m  again?  Such  as  he  isn't  fit  to  live.  If  you'd  only  have 
kept  away  another  five  minutes!" 

Meanwhile,  Lyra  was  in  her  room,  whither  she  had  gone  on 
the  flight  of  Chandos.  Her  heart  was  beating  wildly,  but  not 
with  fear.  She  had,  at  last,  and  quite  suddenly,  come  to  a 
sensible  decision.  She  would  tell  Dane  all.  She  saw  that  it 
was  useless  to  hope  for  secrecy  any  longer.  She  would  tell 
him  all.  And  as  she  sat  down  at  the  table,  with  her  writing 
materials  before  her,  and  tried  to  commence,  she  realized  the 
folly  of  flying  from  him.  She  ought  to  have  confided  in  him 
the  moment  Chandos  appeared  on  the  scene. 

"  I  have  been  mad!"  she  moaned.  "  Yes;  I  am  a  coward, 
and  fear  drove  out  all  of  my  senses.  Oh,  if  he  were  only  here, 
that  I  might  kneel  to  him,  and  tell  him  everything  and  ask 
his  forgiveness!" 

In  feverish  haste  she  began  her  letter. 

"  Dear  Dane,"  she  wrote;  then  she  stopped. 

Ought  she  to  address  him  even  in  the  conventional  terms  ot 
endearment — she,  who  had,  though  unwittingly,  wronged  and 
injured  him?  From  henceforth  she  and  he  must  be  strangers, 
and  she  must  address  him  as  a  stranger. 

A  tear  blotted  out  the  words  she  had  written,  as  if  to  con- 
firm her  decision,  and  she  took  a  fresh  sheet  and  with  dim 
eyes  commenced  to  write  again.  Eapidly  she  set  forth  the 
story  of  Chandos's  visit  to  the  cottage,  her  father's  need, 
which  had  proved  Chandos's  opportunity,  and  the  manner  in 
which  she  had  been  induced  to  marry  him  secretly  at  the  old 
church.  It  was  a  pathetic — a  tragic  story,  told  in  the  simple 
and  moving  language  of  the  heart,  and  she  had  nearly  com- 
pleted it  when  she  heard  a  footstep  on  the  stairs — a  swift  yet 
firm  step,  which  for  the  moment  sent  the  blood  rushing  to  her 
face,  for  it  seemed  to  her  like  the  one  she  knew  and  loved. 
But  it  could  only  be  Griffith,  she  thought,  and  she  quickly  hid 
her  letter  and  rose.  As  she  did  so  the  door  opened  and  Dane 
sprung  toward  her  and  got  her  in  his  arms. 

She  uttered  a  cry— a  cry  of  joy  that  found  an  echo  in  his 
heart — and  clung  to  him,  sobbing  his  name  convulsively— 
"  Oh,  Dane,  Dane!"  Then,  as  if  the  memory  of  all  that  had 
separated  them  flashed  upon  her,  she  drew  away  from  him 
and  held  him  at  arm's-length. 

"  You— you  must  not  touch    me— must  not  stay!     ane 
,  with  white  face  and  sorrow-laden  eyes. 


338  ONCE    I2f    A    LIFE. 

"  Not  stay?"  he  said,  with  something  very  like  a  smile,  as 
he  pressed  her  hands  to  his  lips. 

"  No,  no!"  she  breathed.  "  You  don't  know — you  don't 
know,  Dane!" 

"  Do  I  not?"  he  said. 

"  No!"  she  moaned.  "  Oh,  if  I  had  only  told  you!  I  did 
try— do — do  you  remember? — but  you  would  not  let  me;  and 
— and  I  was  a  coward  and  afraid.  I  " — her  voice  broke — "  I 
loved  you  so,  Dane;  that  was  why." 

He  tried  to  draw  her  to  him  again,  but  she  kept  him  back. 

"  I  would  have  told  you  that  day  you— you  asked  me  to 
marry  you,  but  you  would  not  listen.  Oh,  if  I  had — if  I  had! 
Dane,  you — you  will  not  be  too  hard  on  me!  You  will  remem- 
ber that  I  loved  you — that  I  " — the  tears  streamed  from  her 
eyes,  and  she  sunk  on  her  knees  at  his  feet — "  that  I  love  you 

stair 

He  tried  to  raise  her,  but  she  would  not  be  raised,  and  he 
Bunk  into  a  chair,  with  bis  arm  round  her  waist,  her  head  rest- 
ing against  his  heart. 

Her  face  was  turned  up  to  him,  and  to  him,  in  his  joy  at 
recovering  her,  she  had  never  seemed  more  lovely,  never  more 
worth  loving  and  holding. 

"  Dane,  I  have  told  you  all  now — now  that  it  is  too  late.  But 
it  has  been  too  late  from  the  beginning.  See,  I  have  written 
it  out;"  she  pointed  to  the  table.  "  You  will  take  it  with  you 
when  you  go;  and  you  must  go  now,  Dane.  I  have  no  right  to 
keep  you!"  A  heart-breaking  sigh  escaped  her  lips.  "  Take 
it  with  you,  and — and  try  and  forgive  me,  Dane.  I  am  not  so 
bad  as  you  think  me.  I  thought  he  was  dead.  They  all — 
Griffith,  everybody — thought  that  it  was  he  who  was  drowned!" 

"  My  dearest!  my  darling — " 

"  No,  no;  don't  speak  to  me!"  she  moaned.  "  It  tfill  rob 
me  of  what  little  strength  I  have  if  you — you  pity  me— and  I 
need  all  my  strength,  for — for  we  must  part,  Dane!" 

She  clung  to  him,  the  tears  coursing  down  her  face. 

"  We  must  part.  I  must  never  see  you  again.  It  would 
be  a  sin — and  yet,  oh,  God,  I  can  not  bear  it — I  can  not!" 

"  Lyra,  Lyra,  my  darling,  listen  to  me!"  he  said,  his  own 
eyes  tilled  with  tears.     "  I  know  all — " 
*  "  Ah!"  She  drew  a  long  breath  and  gazed  up  at  him  appre- 
hensively.    "  All?    And — you  forgive  me?    You  can  speak 
to  me  as  you  do!    Ah,  Dane — my  husband — " 

The  word  reminded  her  that,  as  she  thought,  she  had  no 
right  to  call  him  by  that  s*cred  name,  and  with  a  cry  she  drew 
away  from  him. 


OITCE   IH    A    LIFE. 

He  seized  her  and  drew  her  against  his  heart. 

"Lyra,  Lyra!"  he  said,  hoarsely,  "  I  tell  you  I  know  all. 
Both  of  the  villains— the  man  Rawdon  and  Chandos— have 
Confessed." 

"  Confessed!"  she  breathed,  with  wide-open  eyes. 
'  ^f'  ye?*  .  Can  not  y°u  Suess  the  truth?    Think,  dear- 
est.    What  is  it  that  such  an  unscrupulous  scoundrel  as  Chan- 
dos would  naturally  do?" 

She  shuddered. 

"  I  den't  know  what  you  mean,  Dane,"  she  whispered.  "  I 
only  know  that  you  must  not  stay  here,  that— we  must  part" 

His  grip  on  her  tightened. 

"  Part!    Who  shall  part  us?" 

A  look  of  shame,  almost  of  horror,  flashed  into  her  eyes. 

"  No,  no!"  she  panted.  "  Save  me  from  myself,  Dane.  I 
am  weak  as  water.  Save  me  from  myself !" 
**  "My  poor  child!"  he  whispered.  "There  is  no  need  to 
ask  me  to  save  you.  You  are  quite  safe,  thank  God!  Do  you 
not  understand  when  I  tell  you  that  they  have  made  full  and 
free  confession?" 

She  shook  her  head.  Her  hair  had  escaped  its  bands,  and 
was  falling  in  a  rich  flood  over  her  shoulders,  and  partly  hid 
her  face. 

He  put  it  back,  and  looked  into  her  eyes  with  a  look  that 
brought  the  blood  burning  to  her  face  and  made  her  heart 
leap.  1 

Lyra,  that  marriage  was  no  marriage  at  all.  It  was  a 
mock  one,  planned  and  carried  out  with  devilish  cunning  by 
Chandos.  The  man  who  performed  the  sham  ceremony  was 
not  a  clergyman.  His  name  was  Rawdon — a  school-master. 
He  is  dead.  But  before  he  died  he  told  Martin  and  me  the 
whole  business.  You  are  not,  never  were — oh,  thank  God! — 
Chandos  Armitage's  wife!" 

The  blood  ebbed  from  her  face  and  left  it  deathly  white. 
Sudden  joy  and  relief  go  near  killing  sometimes. 

"  Not— not  his  wife!    Then— then— " 

She  crimsoned  over  face  and  neck  as  her  eyes  sought  his, 
then  dropped  from  his  ardent  gaze. 

"  Yes,"  he  whispered,  answering  her  look — "yes,  you  are 
my  wife,  Lyra — mine!" 

"  Why,  you  are  wet — all  wet,  Dane!"  she  exclaimed  sud- 
denly. "  My  face,  my  dress  are  wet!  Oh!  what  has  hap- 
pened?" 

He  laughed.  His  eyes  were  bright  with  his  regained  bap* 
piness. 


830  ONCE  nr  A  LIFE, 

"  I  fell  in  the  water/'  he  said. 

"  Dane,  tell  me  the  truth.  Oh,  Dane,  don't  let  us  conoeAl 
anything  from  each  other,  never  again — never  again!" 

"  Well,"  he  admitted,  shamefacedly,  "  I  went  in  after 
Chandos,  who  was  drowning,  and — 

She  shuddered  at  the  sound  of  his  name,  and  from  that  day 
Dane  never  mentioned  it  in  her  hearing  again. 

"  And — and  you  saved  him?"  she  breathed. 

He  nodded  slowly. 

"  Yes.  I  know  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself,  as  Griffith 
has  remarked  more  than  once,  but — " 

She  wound  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  pressed  her  lips  to 
his  in  a  passionate,  worshiping  kiss. 

"  Oh,  Dane,  Dane!  how  noble  you  arel  How — how  I  love 
youi" 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

ST.  AUBYN  did  not  put  in  an  appearance  at  the  cottage 
until  past  noon  the  following  day.  As  he  came  into  the  gar- 
den, Dane  rose  from  the  arbor  seat,  where  he  had  been  sitting 
with  Lyra,  and  wrung  his  hand. 

There  was  no  need  for  St.  Aubyn  to  ask  if  "all  were  well." 
One  glance  at  Dane^  face  told  that  the  two  were  once  more 
united. 

"  How  is  Lady  Dane?"  he  asked,  as  if  he  had  come  to  pay 
an  ordinary  morning  call. 

Dane  linked  his  arm  in  St.  Aubyn's  and  led  him  to  Lyra. 

She  was  still  rather  pale,  but  that  awful  look  which  had 
haunted  St.  Aubyn  had  disappeared  from  her  face,  and  as  she 
gave  him  her  hand,  something  of  her  old,  happy  smile  shone 
in  her  eyes,  mingled  with  a  tender  gratitude. 

"  See  for  yourself,"  said  Dane. 

St.  Aubyn's  tact  and  manner  were  perfect.  As  if  nothing 
whatever  had  happened,  completely  igoring  the  tragic  inci- 
dents of  the  previous  day,  he  took  Lyra's  hand,  returned  its 
warm  pressure,  and  then  sat  down  beside  her  and  talked  of 
the  beauty  and  richness  of  Devonshire  scenery,  filling  Lyra's 
heart  with  gratitude  and  Dane  with  admiration. 

Quite  calmly  and  naturally,  St.  Aubyn  did  all  the  talking, 
and  sat  smoking  and  chatting  for  half  an  hour,  then  rose,  like 
an  ordinary  afternoon  visitor,  to  take  his  departure. 

"  Come  back  to  dinner,  old  fellow,"  said  Dane,  just  as  he 
bad  said  at  Rome,  at  London,  at  Highfield  scores  of  times. 


ONCE    EN"    A    LIFE.  33* 

^  "*  Yes^yes,"  said  Lyra,  in  a  low  voice  and  with  eager  eyes— 

"  Thank  jpou,  I  shall  he  very  glad/'  returned  St.  Aubyn, 
just  as  usual. 

Dane  went  with  him  to  the  gate  and  on  to  the  river-bank, 
and  wten  out  of  sight  of  Lyra  he  held  out  his  hand,  and  look- 
ing straight  into  St.  Aubyn's  eyes,  said  in  a  low  voice  shaken 
by  emotion: 

"  What  am  I  to  say  to  you,  St.  Aubyn?" 

"  Nothing,"  said  St.  Aubyn. 

Dane  grasped  his  hand  tightly. 

"  She  has  told  me  all,"  he  said. 

"  Yes?"  said  St.  Aubyn,  meeting  his  gaze  unflinchingly. 
"  I  knew  that  she  would,  or  I  shouldn't  have  told  her.  ft  is 
for  you  to  say  whether  you  blame  me — wish  to  cut  me-—" 

Dane  put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Cut  you?  God  bless  you,  old  fellow!"  His  eyes  grew 
dim.  "  What  a  friend  you  have  been  to  us!  What!  do  you 
think  I  am  such  a  blind  idiot  as  not  to  understand  that  your 
affection  for  her  is  an  honor  to  her,  and  to  me,  too?  Do  you 
think  she  doesn't  feel  that?  St.  Aubyn,  you  have  been  the 
truest  friend  a  man  ever  had;  and  if  " — his  voice  broke—"  if 
I  could  tell  you  what  I  feel;  but  I  can't,  and  it's  no  use 
trying." 

"  All  right,"  said  St.  Aubyn,  using  Dane's  favorite  phrase 
as  he  grasped  his  hand.  "  We  won't  say  any  more." 

The  two  men  walked  along  the  river-side  in  a  silence  more 
eloquent  than  words;  then  suddenly  the  sight  of  the  sand-bank 

glittering  in  the  sunshine  recalled  the  scene  of  last  night  to 
ane.     He  started. 

"  What  about  that  scoundrel — what  have  you  done  with 
him?"  he  asked,  slowly. 

"  WTe  took  him  to  the  hotel  and  put  him  to  bed,"  said  St. 
Aubyn,  gravely.  "  He  was  very  bad—" 

Dane  muttered  something. 

"  Very  bad,  half  delirious,  in  fact;   but  I  think  it  was  the 
result  of  some  brandy  he  got  from  the  waiter  as  much^as  his 
ducking.     Martin  has  taken  him  up  to  town  to-day. " 
paused  and  lighted  a  cigarette.     "  He  seems  to  have  caught  a 
chill  vesterda^     Heaven  and  that  wild  man  of  the  woods, 
Griffith,  only  knows  how  long  he  had  been  in  the  water, 
Chandos  says  'hours.'     Anyway,  he  is  a  perfect  wreck, 
fancy  our  villainous  friend  is  given  to  excessive  alcohol,  and 
that  he  was  not  in  training,  so  to  speak,  for  yesterday's  per- 


333  OHCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

formance.  Last  night  he  repeated  his  confession,  and,  I 
think,  perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  told  the  truth." 

"  Martin  has  gone  with  him?" 

"  Yes/'  said  St.  Aubyn.  "  Dane,  Martin  Fanshawe  has 
given  me  a  better  opinion  of  parsons  than,  I  am  ashamed  to 
say,  I  have  ever  had  before.  To  see  him  beside  that  wretch's 
bed,  exhorting  him,  praying  over  him!  Well,  Martin's  a  good 
fellow  and  a  good  Christian,  and  that  sums  it  up.  I  ventured 
to  express  my  sense  of  his  goodness,  and  he  remarked  that  if 
you,  whom  the  scoundrel  had  so  wronged,  injured,  could  risk 
your  life  to  save  his,  the  least  he,  Martin,  could  do,  as  a  cler- 
gyman, was  to  try  and  save  his  soul.  I  wanted  to  express  a 
doubt  that  Chandos  had  a  soul,  but  I  forbore.  Martin  sends 
his  love  to  Lady  Dane,  and — " 

He  paused. 

'*  Go  on,"  said  Dane. 

"  Well,  he  said  that  if  you  asked  his  advioe — which  was  not 
probable — he  should  recommend  you  to  take  her  away  for  a 
change.  Somewhere  on  the  Continent — anywhere  where  she 
could  forget  that  scoundrel  and  all  his  works." 

"  Martin  is  right;  he  always  is.  I  must  take  her  away," 
said  Dane.  "  But  don't  think  that  Lyra  is  ill  or  broken 
down.  No."  He  smiled  with  profound  satisfaction.  "I've 
proved  to  her  that  it  was  all  my  fault." 

"  All  your  fault?"  said  St.  Aubyn,  rather  startled,  notwith- 
standing his  warm  regard  for  Lyra. 

"  Yes,  certainly.  Wouldn't  you  do  so  if  you  were  in  my 
place?" 

St.  Aubyn  smiled. 

"  Yes,  certainly,"  he  assented,  promptly.  "  Of  course  I 
should." 

"  Well,  then!"  said  Dane.  "But,  as  I  said  before,  don't 
you  think  that  she  is  going  to  be  ill?  She's  all  right,  as  you'll 
jee  when  you  come  to  dinner  to-night.  But  all  the  same, 
we'll  go  abroad  for  a  bit.  By  George!"  he  flushed  and  smiled, 
"  it  will  be  a  second  honey-moon." 

That  modern  saint,  in  a  long  black  coat  and  white  choker, 
Martin  Fanshawe,  took  Chandos  to  town.  Either  his  long 
bath  or  his  terror  had  played  havoc  with  the  accomplished 
scoundrel;  and  notwithstanding  the  best  of  medical  advice, 
and  the  unremitting  attention  of  a  first-class  nurse,  the  Hon- 
orable Mr.  Chandos  grew  exceedingly  ill.  The  doctor  hinted 
that  a  long  but  secret  course  of  indulgence  in  alcohol  had  so 
•undermined  Mr.  Chandos' s  constitution  that  the  shock  and 
consequent  fever  might  end  fatally.  "  Of  eturse,  while  there 


ONCE    IN    A   LIFE. 

OOtJ 


was  life"  there  was  hope,"  etc.,  etc.     Day  by  day 
grew  weaker.     He  was  an  extremely  interesting  invalid^ 
the  nurse,  who,  it  is  true,  did  not  know  anything  of  his  antel 
cedents,  was  quite  charmed  with  him. 

Clad  in  a  dressing-gown  of  soft  peach  silk,  he  lay,  or  sat, 
propped  up  by  pillows,  and  discoursed  "  Shakespeare  and  the 
musical  glories  "  by  the  turn  together.  Sometimes  he  amused 
himself  by  composing  "  sonnets  "  and  "  lyrics,"  or  sketching 
"  impressions,"  as  of  old,  and  at  first  he  seemed  quite  happy 
and  contented,  as  a  man  whose  conscience  is  at  rest  should  be. 

But  as  he  grew  still  weaker,  the  air  of  complacency  began  to 
leave  him.  He  had  "  bad  quarters  of  an  hour,"  sighed  and 
groaned  in  his  sleep,  and  grew  anxious-eyed. 

One  day  Martin  came  up  to  see  him.  A  glance  at  the 
wasted  face  and  shrunken  eyes,  with  their  unnatural  glossy 
sheen,  told  Martin  that  Chandos  was  nearing  the  end  of  a 
life  which  had  been  half  farce  and  half  tragedy. 

"  Well,  Fanshawe,"  said  Chandos,  with  a  flicker  of  his  su- 
perior and  condescending  smile,  "  you  have  come  to  see  me 
before  I  pass  beyond  '  these  garish  lights,'  as  poor  Dickens 
said  at  his  last  reading." 

Martin  looked  gravely  at  him. 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  so  ill  as  you  think,  Chandos." 

Chandos  eyed  him  half  stealthily. 

"  I  am  dying,"  he  said,  with  a  sudden  note  of  suppressed 
terror  in  his  voice — "  I'm  dying,  and  you  know  it!  They  all 
know  it — the  doctor  and  the  nurse — though  they  try  to  keep 
it  from  me.  Look  at  my  arm."  He  drew  the  silken  sleeve 
back  and  held  up  the  wasted  limb.  '  You  see?  Three  days 
ago  there  was  blood  on  my  handkerchief  after  I'd  coughed. 
Yes,  I'm  dying!" 

His  lips  quivered,  and  he  looked  from  side  to  side,  with  a 
hunted  expression  on  his  hatchet-like  face. 

"  I  fear  it  is  so,"  said  Martin,  solemnly.  Chandos, 
knowing,  as  you  do,  that  you  are  near— 

"  No,  no,"  broke  in  the  querulous  voice, 
to  me,  Fanshawe.    Sermons  are  all  very  well  in  a  nice  church, 
with  a  surpliced  choir  and  good  music,  but— but^  without  the 
proper  accompaniment  they— they  jar  upon  me." 

<rMy  poor  fellow!"  said  Martin,  with  pity  and  not  anger. 
"  Think  Chandos!  God  has  given  you  time  for  repentance! 

"  Thanks— thanks,"  said  Chandos,  as  if  he  were  declining 
some  invalid  dainty  which  he  did  not  want. 
of  you.     But  repentance!   Now,  I  doubt  whether  any  man 
really  repents.     I  doubt-  '  His  endeavor  to  keep  up  the  1 


334-  ONCE    IN"    A    LIFE. 

of  bantering  cynicism  broke  down  suddenly,  and  clutching 
Martin's  arm,  he  said  in  quite  a  different  voice:  "  Fanshawe 
I — I  want  to  see  Dane!" 

"  To  see  Dane?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Chandos,  his  eyes  wandering  reitlessly  round 
the  room.  "  I — I  want  to  know  whether  " — he  tried  to  smile, 
as  if  he  were  ashamed  of  his  emotion,  but  the  smile  was  a 
ghastly  one — "  I  want  to  know  whether  she  forgives  me!" 

"  Be  assured  of  that,"  said  Martin,  in  a  low  voice.  "  Lyra 
is  too  true  a  Christian  to  harbor  resentment.  She  has  forgiven 
vou  long  since,  or  she  would  not  be  so  perfectly  happy  as  she 
is," 

"  You  think  so?"  said  Chandos,  uneasily  and  doubtfully. 
"  It  seems  impossible — impossible!" 

"  Not  for  her — not  for  Lyra,"  responded  Martin.  "  You 
had  her  forgiveness  long  since.  Seek  now  the  forgiveness  of 
Heaven — " 

"  Yes,  yes;  but — but  I  want  to  see  Dane;  I  want  to  hear 
him  say  that— -that  she  forgives  me.  Ask  him  to  come  to  me. 
I — I  don't  think  he'll  refuse.  He  " — he  turned  his  head 
away — "  he  saved  my  life — or  tried  to  do  so.  Tell  him  that 
I'm  dying,  that  I  shall  never  trouble  him  after  this — "  A  fit 
of  coughing  stopped  him,  and  Martin  saw  that  the  handker- 
chief was  flecked  with  blood. 

Dane  was  on  the  point  of  starting  for  the  Continent  with 
Lyra,  but  he  came  up  immediately  on  receipt  of  Martin's  tele- 
gram. 

Chandos  was  much  weaker,  but  was  still  propped  up  amidst 
his  pillows.  The  bed  was  strewn  with  writing  and  sketching 
materials,  and  his  guitar,  with  its  pale-blue  ribbons,  lay  within 
reach.  A  flush  spread  over  his  thin  face  as  Dane  entered. 

"  So  you've  come,"  he  said.  "  I — I  thought  you  would. 
It's — it's  lovely  weather,  isn't  it?  I'm — I'm  busy,  as  usual, 
you  see;"  he  waved  his  weak,  trembling  hand  to  the  litter  OR 
the  bed.  "  I've  just  been  knocking  off  a — a  few  verses  to — 
to  Autumn."  He  rolled  his  eyes,  and  simperingly  repeated: 

**  "When  Autumn  tints  the  brittle  leaves, 
Death  hovers  near  to  claim  its  sheaves; 
They  fall  like  ghosts—" 

He  broke  off  suddenly  and  looked  with  a  terrible  anxiety  in 
Dane's  face.  ^Dane,  I  sent  for  you  to  ask  you  if — if — she 
had  really  forgiven  me — I  must  know  the  truth.  Fanshawe 
says  '  yes;'  but  these  parsons,  and  nurses,  and  doctors  are  not 
to  be  depended  on,  Thev '  humor  the  patient,'  eh?  Tell  me, 


(WCE    Df    A    LIFE.  335 

Dane,  and  tell  the  truth,  for  God's  sake.  I  can't  sleep,  I  can't 
rest,  'or  thinking  of  her.  She  cones  to  my  bedside— there  "— 
he  pointed  a  skinny  finger— "  there,  she  is  standing  there 

now!     She  looks  as  she  looked  that  day  in — in  the  church  " 

he  shuddered  and  hid  his  eyes  in  his  hand  as  if  to  shut  out  the 
vision—  "  I  shall  see  her,  hear  her  voice,  ju?t  when  I'm  dying, 
mlet^, — unless  I'm  sure  she  has  forgiven  me!" 

Dane  took  his  hand.  I  will  not  say  that  it  did  not  cost 
Dane  an  effort,  or  that  he  did  not  shudder  as  his  fingers  came 
in  contact  with  Chandos's  wasted  claw;  but  he  held  the  hand 
nrmly. 

"  Set  your  mind  at  rest,  Chandos,"  he  said,  gravely,  ear- 
nestly. "  Lyra  has  forgiven  you  wholly,  fully.  She  told  me 
to  tell  you  so. " 

Chandos  drew  a  long  sigh  of  relief. 

"Thank  you,  Dane.  It's— it's  like  her.  Oh  "—he 
groaned,  and  his  head  dropped  on  his  breast — "  what  a  beast  I 
have  been!" 

After  this  his  mind  seemed  to  wander,  and  lifting  his  head, 
he  looked  at  Dane  with  a  ghostly  smile. 

"  Neatly  done,  wasn't  it?"  he  muttered,  plucking  at  the 
coverlid  with  nervous  fingers.  "  Rawdpn  out  of  the  way — 
fear  will  keep  his  tongue  quiet — there  is  no  witness  to  prove 
anything,  even  if  they  charged  me.  She  thinks  I'm  her  hus- 
band. I've  saved  that  money,  too.  Xo;  I  forgot.  It's  gone. 
That  drunken  beast  of  a  sailor  had  my  coat  on  when  he 
slipped  over  the  quay.  What*  Dane's  wife?  Lord!  what  a 
comedy!" 

Dane  bore  it  like  a  man,  and  stood  silent  and  motionless, 
while,  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  Chandos  rambled 
through  his  villainy. 

At  last  his  voice'died  away,  and  he  looked  at  Dane  with  re- 
turning intelligence. 

"  You're  here  still?"  he  said.  "  I— I  wish  you'd  go  now. 
I've — I've  got  what  I  want,  and  "—he  looked  from  side  to 
side  restlessly,  then  dropped  back  on  the  pillow — "  and  yon 
disturb  me." 

Dane  relinquished  his  hand. 

"  Good-bye,  Chandos!"  he  said,  solemnly. 

The  eyes— fearfully  like  a  monkey's  hi  their  glittering  rest- 
lessness— were  lifted  to  Dane's. 

"  Eh  ?    Good-bye— good-bye ! 

"  '  When  autumn  tints  the  brittle  learoi 
Death—" 


336  ONCE    IN    A    LIFE. 

Dane  went  softly  from  the  room,  much  more  impressed  and 
moved  than  if  he  had  found  the  dying  man  raving  violently. 
Chandos  died  that  night. 

Nearly  ten  months  later,  on  a  particularly  bright  summer 
afternoon,  there  was  a  great  stir  and  bustle  at  Starminster. 

In  the  house  itself  servants  were  hurrying  to  and  fro,  as  if 
engaged  hi  some  tremendous  and  all-important  preparations. 
Outside,  flags  were  flying,  and  an  eager  and  excited  crowd  of 
villagers,  with  flowers  in  their  button-holes  and  in  the  bosoms 
of  their  dresses,  looked  and  laughed  with  anticipatory  enjoy- 
ment. 

A  huge  marquee  reared  itself  proudly  on  the  lawn,  and  the 
local  brass  band  discoursed  sweet  and  noisy  music.  Children, 
dressed  in  their  Sunday  best,  were  roving  and  running  all  over 
the  place. 

At  first  sight,  "  the  intelligent  observer  "  would  have  said  that 
these  signs  portended  a  wedding,  but  for  once  "  the  intelligent 
observer  "  would  have  been  mistaken.  It  was  a  christening, 
and  this  gathering  of  all  the  clans  was  to  celebrate  the  naming 
of  Lord  and  Lady  Dane's  first-born,  their  son  and  heir. 

Three  o'clock  was  the  hour  fixed  for  the  ceremony,  which 
Martin  was  to  perform  in  the  ivy-grown  chapel  in  the  grounds; 
but  long  before  that  the  villagers,  and  not  only  the  villagers, 
but  the  tenants  and  the  people  from  the  nearest  town,  had 
thronged  the  lawn,  only  too  delighted  to  testify  by  their  pres- 
ence to  the  unqualified  popularity  of  Lord  and  Lady  Dane. 

It  was  distinctly  and  emphatically  a  day  of  rejoicing.  After 
the  christening  there  were  to  be  some  athletic  sports;  after 
the  sports  a  dinner,  to  which  all  were  welcome,  and  after  the 
dinner  a  dance  on  the  lawn,  a  dance  which  was  to  continue  till 
the  moon  had  dipped  behind  the  hills  beyond  the  park. 

I  suppose  in  the  great  and  good  time  coming  such  a  gather- 
ing, such  a  scene  will  be  impossible.  Well,  "  the  old  order 
changeth,  giving  place  to  the  new;"  but  for  artistic  and  other 
reasons,  the  disappearance  of  the  old  feudalism  will  be  re- 
gretted. Anyway,  the  old  order  was  in  fine  force  that  day. 
There  was  not  a  man,  woman  or  child  who  did  not  feel  as  if 
they  had  a  part  and  lot  in  the  matter.  It  was  almost  as  if 
Lady  Dane's  child  were  then-  child,  Dane  and  his  wife's  happi- 
ness their  happiness;  and  every  face  was  decked  with  smiles  as 
the  hour  of  three  approached,  and  the  big  crowd  gathered  with 
one  accord  at  the  bottom  of  the  flight  of  steps  Teading  to  th0 
house. 


•ONCE    IN    A    LIFE,  337 

As  the  clock  struck,  a  group  of  persons  emerged  from  the 
hall  and  stood  looking  down  at  the  crowd. 

First  came  Dane  and  Lyra  and  the  earl,  for  the  old  man, 
though  he  leaned  with  his  right  hand  on  his  sixpenny  oak  stick, 
held  Lyra's  arm  with  his  left. 

At  sight  of  them  the  crowd  set  up  a  loud  cheer,  and  cries 
of  "  Long  live  the  earl,  long  live  Lord  and  Lady  Dane,"  rose 
heartily. 

Very  beautiful  and  very  happy  Lyra  looked  that  day,  and 
there  was  some  excuse  for  the  proud  smile  with  which  Dane 
glanced  at  his  wife  as  he  raised  his  hat  in  response  to  the 
cheers. 

Close  behind  them  came  Martin  and  Theodosia  and  SL 
Aubyn. 

A  cheer  greeted  them  also,  for  the  crowd  knew,  in  a  vague 
way,  that  Lord  and  Lady  Dane  had  gone  through  some  trouble, 
and  that  the  calm,  pleasant-looking  man  with  the  iron-gray 
hair  had  proved  a  true  friend;  and  Mr.  Fanshawe  was  also 
known  and  respected. 

But  when,  immediately  behind  them,  Mary — that  most  im- 
portant personage,  "  baby's  nurse " — appeared  with  the 
precious  infant  in  her  arms,  a  roar  of  delight  welcomed  her 
and  made  her  honest  face  turn  crimson. 

"  Lawks  sake!  they'll  wake  the  darling,"  she  said  to  Grif- 
fith, who  limped  beside  her;  and  she  rocked  and  crowed  to  the 
baby  in  the  accepted  fashion. 

The  crowd  made  a  lane  for  the  principal  performers  in  the 
ceremony  to  pass  through,  and  the  children,  admirably  drilled 
and  marshaled  by  the  school-master,  strewed  the  path  with 
flowers  which,  in  honor  of  the  baby,  were  all  of  white. 

Slowly,  to  the  music  of  the  brass  band  which  proudly  led 
the  van,  the  procession  made  its  way  to  the  church. 

It  was  too  small  to  hold  all  who  were  present,  but  all  who 
could  crowded  and  squeezed  their  way  in;  and  presently,  as 
the  organ  poured  out  its  music,  Martin  came  down  the  aisle, 
clad  in  his  white  surplice,  his  usually  grave  face  softened  by 
the  rare  smile  which,  so  his  wife  declared,  made  him  look  like 
a  saint. 

In  deep,  impressive  tones  he  commenced  the  famili 
ice.      The  congregation  listened  reverently;  but  a  stir,  the 
stir  of  suppressed  excitement,  ran  through  them  when  Martui 
said,  "  Name  this  child,"  and  St.  Aubyn,  stepping  forward, 
said,  in  a  low  but  clear  voice  that  could  be  heard  by  all: 

"  St.  Aubyn  Dane." 

To  the  delight  of  all  present  the  baby  smiled  placidly  until 


338  ONCE  IN  A  trrs.  ,- 

the  water  fell  on  its  face,  then  it  uttered  the  proper  c.rf — one 
cry  only — and  was  immediately  seized  and  hushed  by  Mary. 

The  crowd  poured  out  of  the  church  and  made  its  way  to 
the  marquee,  in  which  awaited  them  a  dinner  that  afforded  a 
topic  of  conversation  for  many  a  year  after.  Toward  the  close 
of  *lie  meal,  Dane  and  Lyra,  with  the  earl,  St.  Aubyn,  Martin 
and  Theodosia,  entered  the  huge  tent,  and  a  cheer  that  was 
more  like  a  roar  welcomed  them. 

With  the  color  coming  and  going  on  her  lovely  face,  Lyra 
clung  to  her  husband's  arm  and  looked  round  with  a  smile 
upon  the  friendly  faces  all  turned  toward  her. 

The  old  earl  touched  her  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Give  me  your  arm,  my  dear/'  he  said. 

She  took  his  hand  and  drew  it  within  her  arm,  and  lifting 
his  gray  head  proudly,  the  old  man  raised  his  voice. 

"  You  do  not  need  to  be  told,  friends  and  neighbors,  that 
you  are  welcome!" 

"  No,  no!"  was  the  responsive  shout.  "  Long  live  the 
earl!" 

The  old  man  smiled. 

"  Say,  rather,  long  lire  his  son  and  grandson/'  he  said.  "  I 
»m  an  old  man,  friends,  but  my  old  age  has  been  blessed,  not 
only  by  a  son  and  daughter  to  cheer  me  with  their  love  " — he 
raised  Lyra's  hand  to  his  lips,  and  the  action  was  greeted  by  a 
frantic  cheer — "  but  by  a  grandson  who  will,  I  trust,  not  only 
inherit  my  name,  but  your  friendship  and  love,  which  are 
dearer  to  me  than  any  empty  title." 

"  The  earl,  health  and  long  life  to  him!"  some  one  shouted. 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  old  man.  "  Drink  to  the  health  of  my 
son  and  daughter." 

"  No,"  said  Lyra;  and  low  and  trembling  as  her  voice 
was,  it  reached  every  ear. 

There  was  rather  an  awkward  pause.  But  one  man  was 
equal  to  the  emergency.  St.  Aubyn,  who  had  stood  at  a  mod- 
est distance  surveying  the  proceedings  with  a  pleasant  smile, 
here  stepped  forward,  and  catching  up  a  glass,  raised  it  above 
his  head. 

"  Long  life  and  happiness  to  St.  Aubyn  Dane!"  he  cried. 

The  happy  inspiration  was  accepted  and  acted  upon  with 
unanimous  promptitude,  and  as  every  one  sprung  to  his  feet, 
the  cry,  "  Long  life  and  happiness  to  St.  Aubyn  Dane!"  rent 
the  air. 

The  Mill  Cottage  still  stands;  but  it  is  now  the  center  of  a 
large  and  thriving  farm,  of  which  its  owner,  Griffith,  is  justly 


OKCE    Df    A    LIFE.  339 

proud.  But  he  is  still  prouder  of  the  fact  that  every  year  in 
May,  when  Devonshire  is  at  its  best,  Lady  Dane  and  her  chil- 
dren take  up  their  quarters  there.  For  a  couple  of  weeks  the 
happy  children,  and  their  no  less  happy  mother,  roam  and 
romp  unchecked  by  the  banks  of  the  shining  Taw,  and  up  the 
valley  in  which  "  father  taught  mother  to  fish  for  trout. 

Dane  is  always  with  them  on  these  visits,  and  not  seldom 
St.  Aubyn  joins  the  party.  He  is  quite  gray  now,  and  looks 
considerably  older  than  Dane;  but  sadness  and  melancholy 
have  long  since  left  him. 

What  man  can  be  melancholy  or  brood  over  past  misery 
while  he  is  surrounded  by  half  a  dozen  bright-eyed  children, 
who  are  never  so  happy  as  when  they  have  Uncle  'Byn  to  play 
with  them;  or,  better  still,  when,  clustering  at  his  knee,  they 
had  persuaded  him  to  tell  them  not  one,  but  a  score  of  stories? 
They  are  never  too  rough,  never  too  noisy  for  him,  though 
often  the  mother  gently  chides  them,  and  offers  to  rescue  him 
from  their  assaults. 

"  Let  them  alone,  Lady  Dane,"  he  always  says,  as  he  puts 
the  arms  of  the  last  mite  round  his  neck,  or  hoists  it  firmly  on 
to  his  shoulder.  "  Somebody  has  told  them  that  I'm  fond  of 
them,  and  it's  too  late  to  persuade  them  that  they  are  mis- 
taken. Let  them  alone." 


THE  END. 


The  Letters  of  Alphonse 

"  MEMBER  OF  THE  FRENCH  JOURNALISM" 
BY  ALEX.  KENEALY 

Alphonse  is  an  accredited  correspondent  of  a  Parisian 
journal  and  gives  his  impression  of  things  American  as  he 
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